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f         Mfc^<^MM,,M^^MMMliMMMMM»»M»»»— — —  III  III 


LOA(4  STACK  MAY-JDNB,  1910 

The  Grandfather,  A  Play  in  Five  Acts    .        .        .        •     Perez  Galdos  K 

Translated  from  the  Spanish  by  Elizabeth  Wallace 

Some  Aspects  of  Echegaray       .        .        .         Katharine  A.  Graham  % 

In  Delos— In  the  Drifting  Isle  .        .        .  Mildred  McNeal  Sweeney  a 

Poetic  Language Ivan  CalvinJWaterbury  2^ 


EDITORS 
CHARLOTTE   PORTER  HELEN  A.   CLARKE 


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1^1 


VOLUME    XXI  MAY-JUNE  NUMBER    III 

THE  GRANDFATHER* 

{Drama  in  Five  Acts) 

By  Perez  Galdos 

{Given  for  the  first  time  in  the  Teatro  Espanol,  February  14,  1904) 

Translated  from  the  Spanish  by  Elizabeth  Wallace 

PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

Don  Rodrigo  de  Arista-Potestad,  Count  of  Albrit 

Dolly  (Dorotea)  )  ,  •  ,   ,       , 

XT  /T  \  >  his  grand-daughters 

JNell    (Leonora)  J         ^  ^ 

Lucretia,  Countess  of  Lain,  daughter  in  law  to  the  count,  and   mother 

of  Nell  and  Dolly 

Venancio,  former  tenant  of  Albrit  and  owner  of '  La  Pardina  ' 

Gregoria,  his  wife 

Don  Pig  Coronado,  tutor  to  the  girls 

Senen,  former  servant  of  Lain,  later  an  official 

The  Priest.     (Don  Carmelo) 

The  Doctor.     (Salvador  Angulo) 

The  Mayor.     (Don  Jose  Monedero) 

{The  action  takes  place  in  a  city  by  the  sea^  in  northern  Spain^  called 
for  convenience  'Jerusa.  The  principal  scenes  of  the  play  take  place  in 
La  Pardina^  the  lordly  domain  which  once  belonged  to  the  Counts  of  Albrit. 
Time,  nineteenth  century.) 

*  Copyright;  1910,  by  Elizabeth  Wallacei     All  rights  reserved: 
Copyright',  1910;  by  Tht  Poet  Lore  Company.     All  rights  reserved. 

161 


2G3 


162  THE  GRANDFATHER 

{A  shady  grove  in  the  lordly  domain  called  La  Pardina.  In  the  hack- 
ground  a  broad  avenue,  which  is  the  main  road  leading  from  the  grounds  at 
the  right,  the  porch  of  the  house  is  very  ancient,  of  venerable  and  noble  archi- 
tecture, bearing  the  coat  of  arms  of  Lain  and  Potestad:  on  the  left  a  cypress 
hedge  broken  by  a  rustic  gate  through  which  can  be  seen  an  orchard.  Great 
trees  shade  the  scene  with  heavy  arching  foliage.  Near  the  porch  a  round 
stone  table,  chairs,  and  rustic  benches.     It  is  daytime.      Summer) 

Scene  I 

Gregoria  (emptying  flowers  and  plants  from  a  basket,  and  heaping  them 
on  the  table.  Yenancio  comes  in  from  the  back). —  Venancio!  Here  you  are 
at  last! 

Venancio  (put  of  breath,  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead). — 
Brr!     It's  hot! 

Gregoria. —  Rest  awhile.  {With  curiosity.)  And  what  have  you  found 
out  ?     Is  it  true  what  they  say  ?     Is  the  countess  really  coming  to  Jerusa  ? 

Venancio  {with  ill  humor). —  Yes.  Did  you  ever  know  bad  news  that 
didn't  come  true  ? 

Gregoria  {anxiously). —  And  when  does  she  come  .? 

Venancio. —  To-day.  But  don't  worry.  She'll  put  up  at  the  mayor's 
house. 

Gregoria. —  That's  better.  But  —  if  the  count  should  come  too,  it 
would  be  a  case  of  mixing  fire  and  water.  I  wonder  if  they  come  at  the  same 
time  by  chance,  or  if  they  have  planned  this  meeting  to  talk  over  family 
matters.  Because  the  death  of  the  young  count  must  have  mixed  up  things 
a  good  deal. 

Venancio. —  What  do  I  know  about  it .?  The  Countess  Lucretia  comes 
for  the  same  reason  she  always  does,  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her  daughters. 

Gregoria. —  Oh!  She's  a  gay  one!  She  keeps  them  here  in  this  out  of 
the  way  place  so  that  she  can  have  a  good  time  and  carry  on  as  she  pleases 
in  wicked  Paris  or  wickeder  England.  Gad-about!  That's  what  she  is, 
Venancio.  I  can  easily  understand  why  her  father  in  law,  the  Count  of 
Albrit,  who  is  one  of  the  finest  gentlemen  of  Spain,  and  every  one  knows  it, 
should  hate  this  good  for  nothing  foreigner  with  whom  the  young  count  fell 
so  madly  in  love,  peace  be  to  his  soul!  What  I  don't  understand  is  why 
the  old  count  should  come  here  when  he  knows  he'll  have  to  run  into  her. 
Perhaps  he  doesn't  know  it  ?     What  do  you  think  .^ 

Venancio  {turning  over  the  flowers  in  the  basket). —  I  think  that  they 
both  have  their  claws  sharpened  — yes,  I  believe  that.     We'll  see  the  hair 


PEREZ  GALDOS  163 

flying  soon,  both  white  and  red,  and  there'll  be  scratching  too,  for  if  the 
Count  Don  Rodrigo  loves  his  daughter  in  law  as  though  she  were  the 
toothache,  she  entertains  the  same  sentiments  for  him. 

Gregoria. — Of  course  we'll  have  to  lodge  the  count. 

Venancio. — And  feed  him  too,  that's  sure! 

Gregoria. — Every  one  knows  that  he  didn't  bring  back  from  America 
the  yellow  dust  he  went  to  find. 

Venancio. — No  he  didn't  bring  back  anything  but  his  skin.  When  he 
went  out  there  he  had  already  lost  all  his  fortune.  He  hoped  to  make 
another  from  the  gold  mines  left  to  him  by  his  grandfather — the  one  who 
was  viceroy.  But  they  gave  him  only  promises,  and  he  has  come  back 
poor  as  a  rat,  sick,  half  blind,  with  nothing  to  his  account  but  his  years, 
and  he  has  more  than  seventy  of  those.  Then  his  son  had  to  die,  and 
he  had  planned  such  a  great  future  for  him ! 

Gregoria. — Poor  old  gentleman!     Venancio,  we'll  have  to  help  him. 

Venancio. — Yes,  yes.  We  can't  have  people  saying  that  we're  heathen. 
But  who  would  have  thought  of  it!  Us,  Gregoria,  giving  food  to  the  great, 
the  powerful  Count  of  Albrit,  who  has  a  whole  string  of  kings  and  princes 
for  ancestors,  who  less  than  twenty  years  ago  owned  the  whole  of  Lain, 
Jerusa,  and  Polan!     Don't  tell  me  the  world  doesn't  move. 

Gregoria. — I've  just  thought  of  why  the  count  is  coming  to  see  his 
grand-daughters.  I  have  it,  Venancio.  He  feels  the  need  of  some  affec- 
tion that  will  console  his  lonely  soul. 

2^  Venancio. — Maybe.  {Remembering.)  Do  you  know  who  can  tell  us  a 
thing  or  two  about  this  queer  business  .''     Senen, 

Gregoria. — He  arrived  in  Jerusa  yesterday.  The  girls  told  me  that 
they  had  seen  him  and  that  he's  become  quite  a  gentleman. 

Venancio. — ^A  state  official — a  functionary  they  call  him  now.  He  was 
a  servant  of  the  countess,  who,  to  reward  him  for  his  faithful  services,  has 
given  him  recommendations,  and  pushed  his  interests. 

Gregoria. — They  say  that  she  protects  him,  because  he  was  a  sort  of 
go-between  for  her  and  her 

Venancio. — Careful,  Gregoria. 

Gregoria. — Et  cetera — in  her  little  love  affairs.  But  it's  a  fact  that 
every  time  the  countess  comes  here  she  has  Senen  in  tow.  Now  she's  send- 
ing a  letter  of  introduction  to  so  and  so;  now  it's  the  card  to  the  sheriff; 
now  it's  the  note  to  the  minister,  or  to  the  devil  himself,  for  all  I  know. 

Venancio. — Senen  is  clever:    he  can  go  through  the  eye  of  a  needle. 

Gregoria  {quickly). — I  think  I  hear  his  voice. 

Venancio. — Yes,  you're  right  {looking  in  background).    There  he  goes — 


164  THE  GRANDFATHER 

gossipping  with  Jose  Maria.     Well,  he's  slow!    And  he  was  to  tell  me 

Gregoria. — Call  him!     {They  go  hack.) 

Venancio  {calling). — Senen,  hello  there,  Senen! 

Gregoria  {impatiently). — He  pays  no  attention.  What  a  stupid!  Go 
and  get  him,  for  heaven's  sake.  {Venancio  goes  out,  Gkegokia  remains  in 
the  background,  her  back  to  the  audience.  Dolly  and  Nell  appear  coming 
from  the  orchard.  They  dont  want  Venancio  and  Gregoria  to  see  them. 
They  come  in  on  tiptoe.     Dolly  goes  ahead  as  though  exploring. 

Scene  H 

Nell. — Be  careful,  Dolly — if  they  see  us. 

Dolly. — ^They'll  make  us  go  into  the  house. 

Nell  {in  a  low  tone). — Say,  can't  we  go  into  the  grove  through  the  court 
yard  ? 

Dolly. — It  would  be  better  to  go  by  the  avenue. 

Nell. — But  these  idiots  will  cut  off  our  way. 

Dolly. — ^Wait  a  minute. 

Nell  {looking  at  Gregoria). — If  they  should  go 

Dolly  {who  has  gone  on  ahead  exploring,  turning  hack  frightened). — 
They're  coming! 

Nell. — Let's  run  back!    {They  run  quickly  to  the  orchard.) 

Dolly. — This  way.     Let's  go  to  the  pond. 

Nell. — Yes,  as  far  away  as  we  can.    {They  exit  left.) 

Scene  III 
(Gregoria,     Venancio,     Senen) 

Venancio  {leading  Senen  in  by  the  arm). — You  rascal,  you  were  trying 
to  get  away  from  me ! 

Gregoria. — So  here  you  are,  at  last. 

Senen. — My  cousin  was  keeping  me  with  stories  about  the  way  his 
mother  in  law  abuses  him. — Hello,  Gregoria!    Good  looking  as  ever! 

Gregoria.  And  how  fine  you  look.  What  kind  of  perfumery  do  you 
use  ?     It  smells  good.     You've  become  a  regular  swell. 

Senen. — One  has  to  put  on  some  style.     One  owes  it  to  one's  position. 

Venancio  {impatiently). — Well,  what's  the  news  ^. 

Senen. — The  countess  will  arrive  at  Lain  by  the  twelve-five  train.  I've 
had  a  telegram.  I've  just  taken  it  to  the  mayor,  who  didn't  know  when  she 
was  coming. 


PEREZ  GALDOS  165 

Venancio. — ^The  town  will  give  her  a  big  reception. 

Senen. — An  enthusiastic  ovation.  {He  is  careful  to  use  elegant  language.) 
It  would  be  a  sad  thing  indeed  if  proper  honors  were  not  rendered  to  the 
illustrious  lady  by  whose  influence  Jerusa  has  obtained  a  telegraph  sta- 
tion, the  new  high  road  to  Forbes,  not  to  mention  the  two  pardons  granted 
to 

Gregoria. — Oh,  yes,  it's  all  right  to  have  a  celebration 

Venancio. — And  what  about  the  count  ? 

Senen. —  His  lordship  was  to  reach  Polan  last  night  or  this  morning,  by 
the  first  train,  so  that  I  don't  understand,  my  dear  Venancio,  why  he  isn't 
here  already. 

Venancio. — Nor  I  neither,  Senen.  You  who  know  everything,  you  who 
have  lived  in  the  bosom  of  the  family;  you  know  its  customs,  how  every 
one  thinks;  its  dissensions  and  its  quarrels.  Tell  us,  are  Don  Rodrigo  and 
his  daughter  in  law  meeting  here  by  chance,  or  could  it  be  that 

Senen  {giving  himself  an  air  of  importance). — It's  known  to  me  that 
the  old  Albrit  who,  since  the  death  of  his  son  until  now,  has  not  budged 
from  Valencia,  wrote  to  the  countess 

Venancio  {laughing). — Asking  her  for  money. 

Senen. — Man  alive,  no.  He  proposed  an  interview  with  the  countess 
in  order  to  speak  of  some  very  serious  matters. 

Gregoria. — Family  affairs.  And  since  the  countess  does  not  want  to 
have  any  altercations  in  Madrid,  since  there  might  be  a  scandal  there 
and  everybody  know  about  it — it  might  even  get  into  the  newspapers — she 
proposed  this  out  of  the  way  place  where  we  live  like  Simple  Simons,  and 
if  there  is  an  outbreak  it  will  keep  quiet,  and  they  can  wash  their  dirty  linen 
in  the  house.  WTiat  do  you  think  of  that,  my  fine  gentleman  ^  Don't 
you  see  I  know  a  thing  or  two  .? 

Venancio. — My  wife  is  no  fool. 

Senen  {smiling  and  gallant). — She  knows  Greek  and  Latin;  she's  a 
talented  lady. 

Gregoria. — We  will  see,  my  boy.  Why  don't  you  tell  us  why  the  wid- 
owed countess  and  the  grandfather  like  each  other  so  little  ?  You  know 
all  about  it.  It  must  be  a  long  story.  Is  everything  they  say  about  your 
former  mistress  true  .''     Tell  us. 

Senen  {emphatically).  Permit  me,  my  dear  friends,  to  say  no  harm 
of  my  benefactress.  All  I  can  say  to  you  is  that  she  has  a  tender  heart, 
and  is  frank  and  generous,  even  to  excess.  She  makes  no  pretensions 
to  virtues  she  does  not  possess.  She  is  unconventional,  but  she  is  sorry 
for  the  poor  and  she  consoles  the  afflicted.     And  as  for  culture,  there  is 


166  THE  GRANDFATHER 

no  one  like  her.  She  speaks  four  languages,  and  in  each  one  of  them  she 
knows  how  to  be  charming  and  fascinating. 

Venancio. — All  those  languages,  and  as  many  more  that  she  might  know 
would  not  be  enough  in  which  to  tell  the  scandals  that  are  told  of  her  in 
simple  Spanish. 

Gregoria. — Don't  let's  wait  any  longer,  Venancio,  for  if  the  count  comes 
we  have  got  to  think  about  arranging  for  his  lodging. 

Senen  {remembering  with  anxiety  and  some  disgust  something  which  he 
has  forgotten). — Dear  me,  dear  me,  what  a  head  I  have.  Lord,  what  a  head! 

Venancio. — What's  the  matter  ? 

Senen.- — With  all  this  gossip  I  forgot  the  message  from  the  mayor. 

Gregoria. — For  us  ? 

Senen. — Yes;  that  you  should  take  the  children  to  him  immediately 
so  that  the  countess  should  see  them  as  soon  as  she  arrives. 

Venancio. — Of  course;   then  she  will  dine  there, 

Senen. — Are  they  having  their  lessons  .'* 

Gregoria. — No,  to-day  their  lessons  were  very  short.  That  poor  Don 
Pio  had  to  dismiss  the  class  because  they  have  sent  word  to  him  that  his 
own  daughters  were  quarrelling  again. 

Venancio. — ^They  are  probably  in  the  orchard. 

Gregoria. — No. 

Venancio  {going  towards  left). — Let's  see. 

Gregoria. — ^No,  they  are  not  there.  I  was  in  the  orchard  all  morning. 
They  must  be  up  on  the  hill,  as  that  is  their  favorite  walk.  {She  points  to 
the  right.) 

Venancio. — ^You  must  hurry  and  find  them. 

Senen. — If  you  would  like  I  will  go.  Don't  they  know  yet  that  their 
mamma  is  coming  to-day  } 

Gregoria.     No,  they  don't  know  it.     Poor  little  girls! 

Senen. — ^Then  I  will  tell  them.     I  will  go  now. 

Venancio. — You  will  surely  find  them  in  the  upper  woods  on  the  path 
to  Pol  an. 

Gregoria  {taking  up  her  basket  of  flowers). — Go,  and  bring  them  back 
quickly. 

Venancio. — And  we  will  be  in  the  house. 

Gregoria. — ^Yes,  as  it  is  getting  late  and  we  have  got  to  get  ready. 

Senen. — Good  by,  then.      {He  goes  out  back.) 

Venancio   {seeing  him  going). — He  is  a  gay  bird! 

Gregoria. — Oh,  he  isn't  a  bad  sort. 

{Venancio  picks  up  another  basket  and  gathers  the  flowers  that  are  left 
upon  the  table,  placing  them  in  it,  and  they  both  go  into  the  house.) 


PEREZ  GALDOS  167 

Scene  IV 

(Nell  and  Dolly  appear  in  the  gateway  and  aivait  the  disappearance 
of  Gregoria  and  Venancio  before  they  come  out  front.) 

Nell. — Thank  heaven,  that  they  left  us  a  free  field. 

Dolly. — What  shall  we  do  ?     Shall  we  go  to  the  woods  ? 

Nell. — Oh,  dear,  no,  I  am  tired.     (She  sits  down  on  the  ground.) 

Dolly. — And  I  am  tired  of  being  still.  I  feel  like  running.  {She  runs 
and  jumps,  going  up  and  down  stage.) 

Nell. — You  never  get  tired,  Dolly. 

Dolly. — I  would  like  this  very  minute  to  climb  that  big  oak  and  go  out 
on  the  very  highest  branch. 

Nell. — You  would  tear  your  dress. 

Dolly. — I  would  sew  it  again.  I  know  how  to  sew  as  well  as  you  do. 
VvTiat  shall  I  climb  ^ 

Nell. — Oh,  that  isn't  proper.  One  would  say  that  we  were  village 
children. 

Dolly  {hanging  from  a  branch,  swinging  back  and  forth). — To  be  one  of 
the  village  children,  or  seem  like  one  of  them,  do  you  think  that  would 
make  any  difference  to  me  ?     Tell  me,  Nell,  would  you  go  barefoot  ? 

Nell. — No,  indeed. 

Dolly. — I  would  and  I  would  laugh  at  the  shoemakers.  What  are  you 
doing  ^     (Seeing  that  Nell  has  seated  herself  and  taken  out  a  book.) 

Nell. — I  want  to  go  over  my  history  lesson.  We  have  played  enough. 
Let's  study  a  little  now.  Remember,  Dolly,  Don  Pio  told  you  yesterday 
that  you  don't  know  one  bit  of  ancient  or  modern  history,  and  in  a  very 
polite  way  he  called  you  an  idiot. 

Dolly. — He  is  an  idiot  himself.  I  know  one  thing  better  than  he  does. 
I  know  that  I  don't  know  anything,  and  Don  Pio  doesn't  know  that  he 
doesn't  know  anything. 

Nell. — ^^rhat  is  true,  but  we  ought  to  study  some,  if  for  no  other  reason 
than  to  see  how  teacher  will  look  when  we  answer  well.  He  is  a  dear,  simple 
soul.  Come  on,  now,  let's  study  a  little.  Do  you  know,  there's  an  awful 
string  of  those  Gothic  kings  ? 

Dolly  {letting  the  branch  fly  back). — ^W'hat  do  I  care  about  them  ? 
There  're  about  a  million  of  them  and  they  have  names  that  prick  like  thorns 
when  you  try  to  remember  them. 

Nell. — There  is  not  one  of  them  so  disgusting  and  unpleasant  as  that 
Mr.  Mauregato. 

Dolly. — Oh,  he  was  a  brute!     {She  sits  down  beside  her  sister.) 


168  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Nell. — I  should  say  he  was.  They  had  to  give  him  a  hundred  maidens 
each  year  in  order  to  keep  him  from  getting  angry. 

Dolly. — Because  he  was  on  a  diet,  as  Don  Carmelo  says.  The  truth 
is  that  this  horrid  history  gives  us  a  thousand  details  which  are  of  no  im- 
portance to  me  at  all. 

Nell. — But,  Dolly  dear,  education;  don't  you  want  to  be  educated  ? 

Dolly. — ^Well,  the  truth  is  that  I  am  disgusted  with  education  since 
I  have  seen  how  it  has  affected  Senen.  Do  you  remember  when  he  was 
here  two  months  ago  thinking  that  mamma  was  coming  ? 

Nell. — ^Yes,  and  all  the  time  he  was  harping  on  the  middle  ages  and 
heaven  knows  what  else. 

Dolly. — What  have  we  to  do  with  the  middle  ages  or  anything  of  that 
sort,  and  what  difference  does  it  make  to  us  whether  Cleopatra  had  the 
toothache  or  not  ? 

Nell. — Or  that  Dona  Urraca  was  pricked  with  thistles  ? 

Dolly. — But  after  all  we  must  learn  something,  since  mamma  in  all  her 
letters  tells  us  that  we  must  learn,  that  we  must  be  dilligent. 

Nell. — Mamma  idolizes  us,  but  she  never  takes  us  with  her  {sadly).  I 
wonder  why! 

Dolly. — Because,  because, — she  has  already  told  us.  Because  we 
were  so  delicate  when  we  were  little  that  she  wants  us  to  get  strong  in  the 
country  air. 

Nell. — Mamma  always  knows  what  she  is  doing.  Surely  she  will  take 
us  with  her  when  we  are  a  little  older.  But  here  we  are  wasting  time  chat- 
tering and  we  haven't  studied  a  single  word. 

Dolly. — Oh,  it  is  such  a  beautiful  day. 

Nell  (giving  the  history  book  to  her  sister). — ^Take  it.  Read  out  loud, 
and  then  we  can  both  learn  at  the  same  time. 

Dolly  (takes  the  book  and  jumps  up). — Give  it  to  me  here.  Do  you 
know  what  I  have  just  thought  of?  Ihat  the  birds  ought  to  learn  too. 
We  oughtn't  to  be  selfish  about  it.  (She  throws  the  book  up  into  the  air. 
The  book  describes  a  curve  and  falls  open  on  a  branch.) 

Nell. — What  are  you  doing,  you  little  fool  ? 

Dolly. — You  see  what  I  am  doing. 

Nell. — Well,  you  have  done  it.     How  are  we  going  to  get  it  now  ^ 

Dolly. — We  don't  have  to  get  it.  The  birds  will  learn  what  was  done 
to  Alexander  the  Great  and  to  Mr.  Attila,  and  to  Muza  the  Moor. 

Nell. — You  have  gone  crazy.  If  only  some  little  boy  would  come 
along  we  could  get  him  to  climb  up  and  get  it. 

Dolly  (going  over  to  the  tree  as  though  to  climb  it). — I  will  climb  up. 


I 


PEREZ  GALD6S  169 

Nell  (pulling  her  by  the  skirt). — No,  no,  you  may  hurt  yourself. 

Dolly. — Wait  a  minute;  1  will  throw  stones  and  see  if  I  cannot  knock 
it  down. 

Nell. — ^1  here  is  a  little  wind;  perhaps  the  book  will  fly. 

Dolly. — Oh  no,  it  is  too  heavy  {throwing  stones).  Come  down  here, 
tumble  down,  little  book! 

Nell  {hearing  steps). — ^That  is  enough,  Dolly,  somebody's  coming. 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed.     They  will  say  you  are  a  village  tomboy. 

Dolly. — I  don't  care. 

Nell. — Hush!  {Looking  back.)  There  comes  a  gentleman.  A  man, 
look,  look!  {The  Count  of  Albrit  appears  at  the  end  of  the  avenue,  walking 
slowly.) 

Dolly. — I  don't  see  him. 

Nell. — Look  at  him;  he  stopped  to  look  at  us  and  he  is  standing  as 
still  as  a  statue.  See!  he  is  looking  straight  at  us.  {The  count  stands 
immovable  in  the  background,  looking  at  them.) 

Scene  V 

(Nell,  Dolly,  and  the  Count  o/ Albrit.  He  is  a  handsome  and  noble 
old  man;  with  long  white  beard,  and  large  frame  slightly  bowed.  He  wears 
a  rather  shabby  traveling  suit.  He  has  thick  boots  and  he  leans  on  a 
gnarled  cane.  He  shows  in  every  line  the  unhappy  ruin  of  a  distinguished 
personality.) 

Nell  {looking  at  him  with  fear). — He  is  a  poor  old  man!  Why  does 
he  look  at  us  that  way  .^  Is  he  going  to  hurt  us  '^.  Do  you  know,  I  am 
really  afraid. 

Dolly. — So  am  I.     Perhaps  he  is  a  beggar. 

Nell. — If  we  had  some  pennies  we  would  give  them  to  him.  He  doesn't 
move. 

Dolly. — He  is  looking  at  us  so  queerly. 

Nell. — Let's  speak  to  him.  You  speak  to  him.  Say  to  him,  "Mr. 
Beggar " 

Dolly. — He  isn't  a  beggar!  He  looks  much  better  than  that!  O 
Nell,  I  know  who  it  is! 

Nell. — And  I  too.  I  have  seen  him  somewhere.  {Seeing  that  the  count 
takes  a  few  steps  towards  them.)  Oh,  oh,  he  is  coming  this  way;  he  holds 
out  his  hands  to  us.  (The  two  come  close  together,  as  though  to  protect  each 
other.) 


170  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Dolly. — And  he  seems  to  be  crying,  poor  gentleman. 

Count  {with  a  grave  voice ^  coming  forward). — My  dear  children,  do 
not  be  afraid  of  me.     Are  you  Leonora  and  Dorotea  ? 

Nell. — Yes,  sir.     Those  are  our  names. 

Count  {coming  up  to  them). — ^Then  embrace  me;  I  am  your  grand- 
father. Don't  you  know  me  .?  Alas!  years  have  passed  since  you  saw  me 
the  last  time.  Then  you  were  little  bits  of  things  and  so  pretty.  How 
well  I  remember  your  cunning  ways !  {He embraces  them  and  kisses  them  on  the 
forehead.) 

Dolly. — Dear  grandfather! 

Nell. — I  was  just  saying,  I  know  him. 

Dolly. — We  knew  you  by  your  photograph. 

Count. — And  I  knew  you  by  your  voices.  I  don't  know  what  there 
is  in  the  quality  of  your  little  voices  that  touched  my  heart,  and  why  is  it, 
I  wonder,  that  the  two  sound  like  one  "^  Let  me  look  at  you  closely.  Are 
your  faces  as  much  alike  as  are  your  voices  ?  {Looking  at  their  faces  closely.) 
Children,  I  am  almost  blind. 

Nell. — Do  you  know,  grandfather  dear,  we  were  afraid  of  you. 

Count. — Afraid  of  me,  who  love  you  ^ 

Dolly. — Senen  told  us  last  night  that  you  were  coming,  but  we  didn't 
know  you  were  coming  so  soon. 

Nell. — Why  didn't  you  come  in  the  Polan  coach  ? 

Count. — I  preferred  to  come  on  foot,  supported  by  this  stick;  walk- 
ing slowly  and  thinking  of  old  times.  Ah,  I  know  all  the  roads  and  paths 
of  this  country;  the  rocks,  the  trees,  the  hills  all  know  me  well.  Even 
the  birds  seem  to  be  the  same  that  I  knew  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  was  nursed 
amidst  this  beautiful  nature.  What  a  joy  it  is,  and  what  a  pain, 
to  live  again  in  my  past!  It  seems  as  though  everything  about  me  saw 
me  and  recognized  me,  and  as  though  everything,  from  the  great  sea  to 
the  tiniest  insect,  everything  that  lives,  is  standing,  waiting,  I  scarcely  know 
how  to  say  it,  is  stopping  and  looking  to  see  the  unhappy  Count  of  Albrit 
pass  by.     {The  two  girls  sigh.) 

Dolly. — Lean  on  my  arm,  grandfather  dear.  {Each  one  takes  one  of  his 
arms.) 

Nell. — And  let  us  go  into  the  house. 

Count  {with  deep  emotion). — ^Ah,  now  I  am  again  in  the  Pardina. 
Oh,  infinite  sadness,  bitterest  irony  of  things! 

{He  remains  standing  in  a  state  of  ecstacy^  as  though  moved  by  inward- 
prayer.) 


PEREZ  GALDOS  171 


Scene  VI 


{The  Count,  Nell,  and  Dolly.  Senen  coming  in  hurriedly  from  the 
background,) 

Senen.  The  count  here!  And  with  the  children!  And  I  looking  for 
them  everywhere  in  the  hill.  Welcome,  Count  of  Albrit,  to  the  home  of 
your  ancestors.  What  a  handsome  picture  your  lordship  makes  between 
those  two  little  angels. 

Count. — Who  is  speaking  to  me  ^. 

Nell. — It  is  Senen,  grandpapa. 

Dolly. — Don't  you  remember  ? 

Senen. — Senen  Corchado.  He  who  was— and  I  am  not  ashamed  to 
say  it  —  the  servant  of  the  Count  of  Lain. 

Count  (joyfully). — Oh,  yes,  yes.  You  say  you  were,  you  are  still! 
I  am  glad  to  meet  you  here. 

Senen. — I  come  from  Durante  where  I  have  a  position,  to  offer  my 
respects  to  your  excellency  and  to  the  Countess  of  Lain,  who  is  also  to 
arrive  to-day. 

Nell. — Is  mamma  coming  ? 

(Both  girls  drop  the  count's  arm  and  jump  about  joyfully.) 

Dolly. — Joy,  what  joy! 

Nell. — Why,  we  didn't  know  anything  about  it.     Did  you  know  it, 
grandfather  dear  ^ 

Count  (thoughtfully). — ^Yes. 

Dolly  (taking  again  the  count's  arm). — Come,  let's  go  quickly. 

Nell  (anxiously). — We  will  have  to  dress  up. 

Senen. — ^The  young  ladies  are  to  go  to  the  house  of  the  mayor  to  await 
there  the  coming  of  their  mamma,  and  I  will  hasten  to  Venancio,  to  tell  him 
to  come  out  to  receive  your  lordship.     (He  goes  hastily  into  the  house.) 

Nell. — But  is  mamma  going  to  the  mayor's  house  .? 

Count. — So  it  seems. 

Dolly. — Why  doesn't  she  come  to  the  Pardina  with  us  ? 

Count. — This  old  barracks  would  not  be  grand  enough  to  suit  your 
mother. 

Scene  VII 

{The  Count,  Nell,  Dolly,  Venancio,  Gregoria,  and  Senen) 

Venancio  (humbly  kissing  the  count's  hand). — Oh,  your  lordship! 
and  you  didn't  let  us  know,  so  that  we  could  come  out  and  receive  you. 


172  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Gregoria  {kissing  his  hand). — Welcome  to  your  lordship. 

Venancio. — And  may  you  enter  your  house  with  blessings. 

Count  {with  lordly  kindliness). — ^Thanks,  thanks,  my  good  Venancio, 
my  faithful  Gregoria.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well.  I  say,  "see 
you"  {looking  at  them  attentively),  but  I  don't  see  anything  very  well  unless 
it  is  large. 

Venancio. — ^Will  your  lordship  come  in  } 

Count. — No,  wait.  I  will  rest  here.  {They  bring  htm  a  rustic  chair; 
he  sits  down;  they  group  around  him.)  Let  me  feel  again  and  be  refreshed 
again,  by  ancient  friendships  {looking  at  the  foliage  which  surrounds  him). 
Here  I  am  again  in  the  midst  of  these  ancient  trees  which  used  to  shade 
the  plays  of  my  childhood.  You  are  older  than  I,  much  older.  But  time 
does  not  diminish  your  greatness  nor  your  beauty.  The  generations  which 
have  grown  in  your  shadow  pass  away  and  die,  but  you,  immovable,  see  us 
pass,  fall,  and  die.     {He  falls  into  meditation.      They  all  sigh.) 

Gregoria. — My  lord,  I  do  not  forget  that  you  are  very  fond  of  good 
coffee.     I  will  go  and  make  some  immediately. 

Nell. — ^And  serve  it  to  him  here. 

Dolly. — Yes,  yes,  hurry! 

Gregoria. — I  am  going.      {She  enters  the  house.) 

Senen. — ^Too  bad  we  didn't  know  beforehand  that  the  count  was 
coming.     The  town  would  have  prepared  a  fine  welcome  for  him. 

Count. — For  me!     Jerusa  ? 

Senen. — We  would  have  had  music,  the  band.  We  would  have 
had  green  arches,  and  the  council  would  have  invited  your  lordship. 

Count  {zvith  bitterness). — I  know  the  kind  of  homage  which,  when  I 
deserved  it,  and  was  in  a  position  to  receive  it,  was  given  to  me.  Yes,  I 
know  it.  But  to-day  it  would  seem  but  a  cruel  mockery.  Before  I  was 
as  old  and  as  poor  as  I  am  to-day  I  had  the  opportunity  of  appreciating  the 
ingratitude  of  my  compatriots,  the  inhabitants  of  Jerusa.  Twenty  years 
ago,  the  last  time  that  I  was  here,  the  tenants  who  had  succeeded  in  be- 
coming, heaven  knows  how,  the  owners  of  my  lands,  the  parvenu  gentle- 
men, children  of  my  cooks  or  of  my  stable  boys,  received  me  with  cold  dis- 
dain, and  this  filled  me  with  sadness  and  bitterness.  They  told  me  that 
the  town  had  become  civilized.  It  was  a  mushroom  civilization,  and  as 
poor  a  fit  as  the  frock  coat  which  the  yokel  buys  in  a  ready-made  shop. 

Nell. — Grandfather  dear,  your  town  doesn't  forget  the  benefits  it 
has  received  from  you. 

Dolly. — Of  course  it  doesn't.  The  principal  street  of  Jerusa  is  called 
De  Potestad. 


PEREZ  GALD6S  173 

Venancio. — The  fountain  near  the  church  is  called  the  Fountain  of 
the  Good  Count. 

Senen  {eynphatically). — And  to  prove  that  it  isn't  fair  to  accuse  Jerusa 
of  the  sin  of  ingratitude  we  have  to-day  an  eloquent  proof,  your  lordship. 

Count. — What  ? 

Venancio. — Having  known  in  time  of  the  arrival  of  the  Countess  of 
Lain,  there  will  be  an  enthusiastic  reception  for  her. 

Nell.— Trn\y  ? 

Senen. — Which  will  correspond  in  a  measure  to  what  we  owe  to  a 
person  who  has  done  so  much  for  the  prosperity  of  this  town.  The  mayor 
will  go  out  to  meet  her. 

Count. — And  they  will  have  fireworks.     Yes,  it's  all  very  characteristic. 

Dolly. — Music,  fireworks!   Oh  what  fun. 

Count. — Yes,  yes,  you'll  see  it  all.     You'll  enjoy  it  very  much. 

Nell. — ^Will  you  come  too,  grandfather  ? 

Count. — I  ? 

Dolly. — Why  not  ? 

Nell. — Don't  you  want  to  see  mamma  ? 

Count. — Here  in  the  Pardina  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her. 

Venancio. — It's  because  his  lordship  does  not  like  to  go  down  into  the 
town.     Isn't  that  so,  your  lordship  ? 

Count. — Yes. 

Senen. — And  would  you  not  like  to  see  and  admire  the  improvements 
which  have  been  accomplished  in  the  last  few  years  ^. 

Count  {humorously  alluding  to  his  blindness). — I  would  much  rather 
see  them  than  admire  them. 

Venancio  {pointing  to  the  left). — With  the  last  additions  Jerusa  almost 
comes  up  to  the  grounds  of  the  Pardina. 

Count. — In  my  days,  from  this  little  height  where  the  orchard  lies, 
part  of  the  town  could  be  seen. 

Nell. — Nowadays  we  can  see  better,  because  they  have  cut  down 
the  trees. 

Senen  {looking  at  his  watch). — Begging  your  lordship's  permission  I 
would  say  that  it  is  time  for  the  young  ladies  to  get  ready  if  they  wish  to  be 
present  at  the  triumphal  entry  of  their  mother. 

Count. — Yes,  yes,  children,  it's  time. 

Nell. — We'll  dress  in  a  twinkling. 

Dolly. — Shall  we  get  there  in  time  ? 

Nell. — We'll  be  back  in  a  moment,  grandfather  dear. 

Dolly. — ^And  we'll  bring  mamma  with  us. 


174  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Count  {kisses  them  affectionately). — Good  by,  my  children;  enjoy  your- 
selves.    Good  by. 

Venancio  {hurrying  them). — Come  on;   quick,  quick. 

Senen. — And  I  too,  your  lordship,  if  you  wish  nothing  more,  I  will 
retire.     {He  approaches  the  count  familiarly). 

Count. — You  are  probably  one  of  the  ones  appointed  to  set  off  the 
rockets.     Go  quickly.     Do  not  fail  in  your  duty. 

Senen. — If  your  lordship  needs  me. 

Count. — No,  thanks.  And  I  am  glad  that  you  are  going  away.  I 
don't  wish  to  offend  you,  Seneca,  I  mean  Senen;   shall  I  go  on  ? 

Senen. — Nothing  that  your  lordship  may  say  could  offend  me. 

Count. — Well,  I  want  you  to  go  because,  young  man,  you  use  a  kind  of 
perfumery  that  I  don't  like;  strong  perfumery  always  makes  me  ill.  Par- 
don me  {he  holds  out  his  hand) — pardon  me  for  dismissing  you  so  sum- 
marily. 

Senen  {somewhat  disconcerted). — My  lord,  a  few  little  drops  of  helio- 
trope  

Count. — Forget  that  I  have  said  anything.     Good  by. 

Senen  {aside  as  he  goes  out). — ^The  old  lion  of  Albrit  is  getting  full  of 
notions.  ^ 

Scene  VHI 
(Count  and  Venancio) 

Venancio  {affectionately). — Does  your  lordship  feel  well  ? 

Count  {breathing  with  difficulty). — Not  very.  I  feel  too  much  emotion 
upon  finding  myself  in  the  Pardina  again.  I  can  scarcely  breathe.  I 
long,  and  yet  I  fear  to  go  into  the  house.  It  seems  to  me  that  in  the  rooms 
the  ghosts  of  those  I  have  loved  might  come  to  meet  me.  {Passing  his 
hands  over  his  eyes.)  Memories  cloud  my  mind;  my  emotions  overcome 
me.     I  ought  not  to  have  come.     No,  I  ought  not  to  have  come! 

Venancio. — ^The  memories  of  this  house  ought  to  be  pleasant  to  your 
lordship. 

Count. — ^They  can  be  so  no  longer. 

Venancio. — It  was  here  your  lordship  was  born.  It  is  here  you  passed 
your  childhood. 

Count. — It  is  here  that  I  was  powerful  and  great. 

Venancio. — ^You  were  called — and  rightly — the  first  gentleman  of 
Spain. 

Count. — And  to-day,  the  first  gentleman  of  Spain — he  who  gave  to  all 


PEREZ  GALDOS  175 

with  a  large  generosity — comes  to  ask  you  hospitality.  Vicissitudes  and 
changes  which  I  do  not  wish  to  recall;  this  revolution  which  makes  and 
unmakes  estates  and  families;  which  changes  everything,  has  made  you 
owner  of  the  Pardina.  And  I  come  here  begging  a  lodging;  not  like  its 
lord,  but  like  a  poor  mendicant  without  a  home;  abandoned  by  the  world. 
If  you  take  me  in  you  know  that  you  must  do  so  in  pure  charity,  without 
remuneration;    without  recompense.     I  am  poor;    I  have  lost  everything. 

Venaucio. — But  this  is  always  your  lordship's  house,  and  we,  to-day 
as  yesterday,  are  your  servants. 

Count. — I  thank  vou.  Believe  me  that  I  thank  you  from  my  very 
soul.  But  I  understand  that  you  are  simply  paying  a  debt  and  that  you 
pay  it  as  a  Christian  should.  Everything  that  you  are;  everything  that 
you  have  acquired,  you  owe  to  my  protection. 

Venancio. — Without  doubt.  But  first,  in  what  room  would  your  lord- 
ship like  to  sleep  '^. 

Count. — Upstairs;   in  the  bedroom  that  was  my  mother's. 

Venancio  {vexed). — ^The  one  off  the  large  hall  t     It's  full  of  stuff. 

Count. — Well,  take  out  the  stuff  and  put  me  there. 

Venancio. — My  lord,  it  is  all  torn  up. 

Count  {beginnittg  to  grow  angry). — Is  that  the  way  you  begin  ? 

Venancio. — Well,  you  see  it's  this  way.  We  have  turned  it  into  a 
drying  room.     We  hang  up  the  beans  there. 

Count  {more  angry). — Put  the  beans  somewhere  else.  Is  my  person 
of  so  little  importance  that  it  does  not  deserve  a  slight  inconvenience  on  the 
part  of  the  lady  gardeners  ? 

Venancio  {not  quite  resigned). — All  right,  my  lord,  that  is,  if 

Count. — More  excuses.^  Must  I  order  you?  Alas  forme!  {Striking 
the  arm  of  the  chair  with  his  hand.)  Ah,  I  forget  that  now  I  am  the  guest 
of  my  inferiors.  Venancio,  I  ought  to  submit  to  destiny.  I  ought  to  forget 
myself,  and  I  cannot.  My  spirit  each  day  grows  more  bitter  with  the  loss 
of  my  sight.  I  cannot  dominate  my  tyrannical  impulses.  I  am  a  person 
accustomed  to  command.  Authority  is  essential  to  me.  By  heavens! 
put  up  with  me,  or  send  me  from  my  house,  I  should  say,  from  yours. 

Scene  IX 

{The  Count,  Venancio,  the  Priest.  Later,  Gregoria.  The  priest 
Don  Carmelo  is  fat  and  jovial.  He  comes  on  the  stage  from  the  back  and 
goes  towards  the  CoUNT  with  wide  open  artns) 

Priest. — Dear  friend  and  master;   my  beloved  Don  Rodrigo. 


176  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Count  (embracing  him). — Carmelo,  my  friend;  come  to  my  arms. 

Priest. — What  a  happy  surprise;  what  a  pleasure! 

Count. — But  my  dear  fellow,  how  fat  you  are,  and  how  well! 

Priest  (laughing). — In  this  part  of  the  country,  your  lordship,  it  doesn't 
seem  to  make  one  thin  to  do  penance. 

Count. — ^You  doing  penance!  That  is  a  joke.  But  I  know  that  you 
never  condemn  your  poor  flock  to 

Venancio  (jokingly). — We  have  a  parish  priest  who  is  worth  more  than 
he  weighs. 

Count. — And  you  absolve  them  all!  You  will  permit  me  to  speak 
familiarly  with  you  because  of  old  times. 

Priest  (modestly). — You  would  off"end  me  if  you  did  not,  your  lordship. 

Count  (very  affectionately). — ^Very  well,  Carmelo,  very  well.  Sit  down 
beside  me.  How  they  do  pass.  How  they  do  fly,  these  years!  I  wonder 
if  I  could  guess  .^     You  must  be  about  fifty  '^. 

Priest. — I  have  been  fifty  for  three  years. 

Venancio. — So  have  I.     We  are  contemporaries. 

Count. — It  couldn't  be  less.     You  were  twenty-six  when 

Priest. — ^When  my  father  died.  It  was  owing  to  the  count's  gener- 
osity that  I  was  able  to  finish  my  course  in  theology  and  law. 

Count  (luith  quick  delicacy). — Upon  my  word,  I  had  forgotten  that. 

Priest. — But  I  have  not. 

Gregoria  (bringing  a  tray  with  coffee). — Here's  the  coff'ee.  (She  places 
it  on  the  table.) 

Count. — ^This  is  nice.     (He  takes  a  cup.)     Carmelo,  let  me  serve  you. 

Gregoria.  The  young  ladies  are  finishing  dressing.  We  will  go  im- 
mediately. 

Count. — Don't  let  them  wait.  It  must  be  time.  (To  the  priest,  giving 
him  sugar.)     You  like  it  pretty  sweet,  if  I  remember  ? 

Priest. — ^What  a  memory  you  have! 

Count. — It  doesn't  have  much  exercise  in  remembering  favors  done 
to  me,  and  so  I  am  losing  it  as  I  have  my  eyesight. 

Gregoria. — Will  your  lordship  have  anything  more  .? 

Count. — No,  thank  you.      (Exit  Gregoria.) 

Priest  (sipping  the  coffee). — Well,  your  lordship,  what  do  you  think  of 
your  little  grand-daughters  ?  This  is  the  first  time  you  have  seen  them 
since  your  return  from  America  ? 

Count. — ^Yes. 

Priest. — They're  little  angels;  and  how  pretty,  how  charming.  They 
quite  steal  one's  heart.     (The  count  remains  silent;  during  the  pause  Don 


PEREZ  GALD6S  177 

Carmclo  looks  at  him.)     God  has  made  of  them  a  charming  httle  pair;   for 
the  joy  and  pride  of  their  mother  —  and  of  yours. 

Count  {as  though  suddenly  awakening). — What  were  you  saying  ?  Oh, 
yes,  that  the  Httle  ones  are  witches. 

Priest  {trying  to  find  out  the  reason  for  the  count's  presence  in  Jerusa). — 
I  quite  understand  your  impatience  to  see  them.  To  this  desire  to  know 
the  children,  to  embrace  them  and  to  bless  them,  we  owe  the  honor  of  your 
being  here  at  Jerusa. 

Count. — I  have  come  to  Jerusa  principally  for —  {to  Venancio  with  au- 
thority, but  kindly)  Will  you 

Venancio. — My  lord. 

Count. — W^ill  you  do  me  the  favor  of  leaving  us  alone  ? 
{Exit  Venancio.) 

Scene  X 
{The  Count  and  the  Priest) 

Priest. — Senen  has  already  told  me  that  you  and  the  countess  have 
agreed  to  meet  here.  {His  great  curiosity  moves  him  to  try  to  see  the  thought 
of  the  count.)  Here  you  can  talk  over  calmly  questions  of  interest  {pause: 
the  count  remains  silent)  or  others  matters,  whatever  they  may  be. 

Count. — Speaking  of  the  children,  I  would  say  to  you,  my  dear  Car- 
melo,  that  my  first  impression  upon  seeing  them  and  hearing  them  was  — 
it  certainly  was  excellent.  As  you  say,  I  felt  great  pride  and  joy.  I  thought 
I  noted  a  perfect  harmony;  more  than  that,  a  sameness  in  the  timber  of 
their  voices.  As  I  do  not  see  their  faces  very  well,  they  seem  to  me  two 
exact  reproductions  of  the  same  type.  Could  it  be  possible  that  their 
characters,  their  souls  are  alike  also  ^. 

Priest  {after  a  moment  of  perplexity). — Oh,  no,  Don  Rodrigo,  neither 
their  voices  nor  their  faces  are  alike.     And  much  less  their  characters. 

Count  {with  great  interest). — ^Then,  if  they  are  different,  the  one  must 
be  better  than  the  other.  Tell  me,  you  who  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  them, 
which  of  the  two  is  the  more  intelligent;  which  has  the  purer  heart;  is 
the  more  honest  and  generous. 

Priest. — By  my  faith,  the  answer  is  rather  difficult:  both  are  good, 
docile,  intelligent,  with  noble  hearts;  sometimes  a  little  troublesome  and 
mischievous,  but  very  modest;  well  trained  in  elementary  principles;  fear- 
ing God \ 

Count. — ^These  are  the  things  that  they  have  in  common,  yes,  1  under- 
stand.    But  what  are  the  differences  .'* 


178  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Priest. — ^Well,  there  is  a  difference.  It's  like  this.  Dolly  always  takes 
the  initiative  in  mischief.  Nell  seems  to  be  a  little  more  inclined  to  serious 
things.  She  has  a  little  more  foresight.  Dolly  has  a  vivid  imagination; 
an  impetuous  will.  Nell  is  more  thoughtful;  more  steady  and  consistent 
than  the  other  in  her  likes.  But  what  can  I  tell  you,  Don  Rodrigo,  since  you 
are  to  be  with  them  every  day.?  You  will  understand  their  differences 
better  than  any  one. 

Count. — ^That  is  the  very  thing  that  has  brought  me  here. 

Priest. — ^You  came  to ^ 

Count. — To  study  them;  to  begin  a  detailed  analysis  of  their  charac- 
ters. I  cannot  tell  you  the  reasons  for  this  just  now.  {Changing  his  tone) 
But  Carmelo,  why  don't  you  stay  and  dine  with  me  to-day  ? 

Priest. — Oh  no:  to-day  is  the  day,  Count  of  Albrit,  that  you  come  to 
my  house  to  do  penance  with  the  poor  priest. 

Count. — I  accept.     Yes,  I  accept.     At  what  time  .? 

Priest. — ^At  one,  promptly. 

Scene  XI 

(Count,  the  Priest,  a  physician,  young,  of  sympathetic  manners  and 
intelligent  looks.  He  comes  from  the  house,  ffears  a  long  coat  and  derby 
hat) 

Priest. — O  doctor,  come.  (Introducing  him)  Salvador  Angulo,  our 
just  graduated  doctor. 

Count  (taking  his  hand). — A  great  pleasure,  I  assure  you. 

Doctor. — I  come  to  present  my  respects  to  the  Lord  of  Jerusa  and  Polan. 

Count  (trying  to  remember). — ^Angulo,  Angulo,  I  seem  to  recall 

Priest. — A  son  of  Bonifacio  Angulo,  who  was  nicknamed  Cachorro, 
gamekeeper  in  the  mountains  of  Lain. 

Count. — Oh,  yes,  Cachorro;  a  simple-minded,  faithful  servant.  I  re- 
member him  perfectly.  (He  again  extends  his  handy  which  the  doctor 
kisses.) 

Priest. — ^And  I  trust  you  have  not  forgotten,  your  lordship,  that  you 
also  paid  for  this  young  fellow's  education  in  Valladolid. 

Count. — I  } 

Doctor. — For  which  I  owe  his  lordship  the  little  that  I  am  and  the 
little  that  I  am  worth. 

Count. — I  did  not  remember  that;   upon  my  word,  I  had  forgotten  it. 

Priest. — And  you  must  know  also — I  do  not  say  it  because  he  is  here — 
that  this  young  fellow  is  already  famous  in  medical  science. 


PEREZ  GALDOS  179 

Doctor. — I  beg  of  you,  Don  Carmelo! 

Count  (affectionately). — Good,  my  son.  Embrace  me.  (He  embraces 
him.)  Forgive  me  if  I  treat  you  familiarly.  I  cannot  get  over  the  habit 
of  familiarity  since  I  came  into  Jerusa.  {The  doctor  sits  down  with  ex- 
pressions of  respect.) 

Priest. — I  quite  understand  why  you  come  in  such  elegant  attire,  little 
doctor. 

Doctor. — Yes,  I  belong  to  the  committee  which  has  been  appointed  to 
present  its  compliments  to  the  countess. 

Count. — -Ah !   {To  the  priest.)  Are  you  not  going  ? 

Priest.  A  little  later.  Although  there  will  probably  be  a  number 
of  broken  heads.     I  wouldn't  want  the  countess  to  think  I  was  discourteous. 

Count. — Yes.  It  wouldn't  do  to  have  such  an  important  person  ab- 
sent at  this  ceremony. 

Priest. — Listen,  Salvador,  as  soon  as  the  function  is  over,  come  Back 
as  fast  as  you  can  to  the  house,  and  you  will  have  the  honor  of  dining  with 
the  count  and  with  me. 

Doctor. — Thank  you,  what  a  great  honor! 

Count  {joyfully). — ^What  a  good  opportunity  to  consult  him  calmly. 

Doctor. — ^You  are  suffering. 

Count. — No  it's  not  that.  You  know  my  little  grand-daughters.  You 
have  perhaps  attended  them  when  they  were  sick. 

Doctor. — Nell  and  Dolly  enjoy  a  state  of  health  that  is  absolutely  ple- 
bian  and  provincial.  I  have  come  to  see  them  once  or  twice  for  little  ill- 
nesses that  had  no  special  importance. 

Count. — But  they  have  perhaps  been  enough  for  you,  a  careful  observer, 
to  have  learned  something  about  their  temperament;  to  have  found  out 
what  peculiarities  each  one  may  have. 

Doctor. — I  understand.  But,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  have  never  noticed 
any  special  differences  between  them. 

Priest. — Well,  at  my  house,  at  the  dinner  table,  we  can  have  a  long, 
satisfactory  talk.     {Sound  of  rockets.) 

Count  {rising). — They're  here. 

Doctor. — Yes,  they're  coming.     {Distant  music  is  heard.) 

Priest  (going  to  the  left,  to  the  spot  from  which  can  he  seen  the  town  of 
'Jerusa). — From  here  you  can  see  it  all.  What  a  crowd.  They  seem  crazy. 
(The  count  with  great  emotion  rises  and  tries  to  see  what  is  happening  in 
the  town.) 

Doctor. — Look,  your  lordship,  over  here.     (Leading  him.) 

Count, — No,  I  cannot  see,  but  I  hear,  I  hear. 


180  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Priest. — ^The  carriages  are  arriving  at  the  mayor's  house.  {Music 
and  noise  of  the  people  are  heard  nearer.) 

Count  {with  sudden  emotion.  Apostrophising  the  town). —  Ah,  Lu- 
cretia  Richmond  arrives  at  last  in  Jerusa.  At  last  you  are  here:  how 
I  have  longed  for  this  moment!  You  and  I  alone  face  to  face!  I  know  not 
which  is  worse;  you  who  parade  before  the  world  with  impunity  your  shame, 
or  the  servile  and  obsequious  town  which  celebrates  your  coming.  {Sound 
of  hells  is  heard.)  They  are  ringing  now  for  you  and  in  a  short  while  they 
will  call  to  prayers.  {With  exaltation,  raising  his  voice.)  Poor  foolish  town, 
she  who  comes  to  you  is  a  monster  of  wickedness;  an  infamous  forger: 
Do  not  welcome  her;  do  not  receive  her;  stone  her  and  throw  her  out. 
{The  priest  and  the  doctor,  startled  at  the  wild  language  of  the  count,  remain 
silent.  They  try  to  take  him  away  from  the  scene  and  to  lead  him  into  the 
house.) 

ACT  II 

{Large  room  in  the  Pardina.  The  left  and  part  of  the  background 
IS  taken  up  by  a  large  corner  window,  with  elaborately  carved  frame. 
Through  the  window  can  be  seen  trees  and  the  sky.  In  the  background  a 
large  door  which  opens  into  the  hall  and  on  to  other  rooms  of  the  house;  small 
door  on  the  right.  The  whole  room  is  marked  by  the  characteristics  of  a 
lordly  residence  that  is  old  and  fallen  into  decay.  Tables,  chairs,  and  other 
furniture  are  of  mahogany  and  oak  black  with  age.     It  is  daytime.) 

Scene  I 

(Nell,  Dolly,  Don  Coronado  are  seated  about  a  large  table  on  which 
are  papers,  ink,  and  school  hooks) 

Dolly  {striking  the  table). — And  I  don't  know  a  single  word.  Well, 
I  like  that.     I  only  needed  that  to  make  me 

Don  Pio  {appealing  to  her  emulation). — Nell  wouldn't  say  that,  for  she 
wants  to  learn. 

Nell.  Yes,  I  would,  I'd  say  the  same.  I  only  needed  that  to  make 
me 

Don  Pio  {with  feigned  but  unconvincing  severity). — Very  well,  very 
well;  here  are  two  refined  young  girls,  born  to  enter  the  best  society,  and 
who  are  satisfied  with  being  two  little  knownothings. 

Dolly. — We  don't  want  to  know  anything. 

Nell. — ^We  want  to  be  savages. 


PEREZ  GALDdS  181 

Don  Pio. — Oh,  my  dears!  The  heiresses  of  the  counties  of  Albrit  and 
Lain  want  to  be  savages  ? 

Dolly  {gently  pulling  him  by  one  ear). — Yes,  yes,  cross  old  teacher. 

Don  Pio. — Come  now,  Dolly;  another  little  bit  of  history.  Let  us 
try  it. 

Dolly  {leaning  her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  face  in  her  hands  looking  at 
him  smiling). — ^Nice  Don  Pio,  how  handsome  you  must  have  been. 

Don  Pio  {touching  the  ruler  with  his  fingers). — Miss  Dolly,  behave 
yourself. 

Nell. — ^Your  complexion  is  like  a  rose.  If  you  weren't  old  and  we 
didn't  know  you,  we  would  say  that  you  were  painted. 

Don  Pio. — Nell,  behave  yourself.     I  paint  myself.'' 

Dolly. — Tell  us  something.  Is  it  true  that  when  you  were  a  young 
man  you  used  to  break  many  hearts  t 

Don  Pio  {touching  again  with  a  quick  movement  the  ruler  which  is  his 
special  way  of  calling  them  to  order). — Order,  children,  let  us  go  on  with  the 
lesson. 

Nell. — We  have  been  told  that  you  won  hearts  without  saying  a  word. 

Dolly. — ^And  that  you  had  dozens  of  chances. 

Don  Pio. — Chances  .^  Oh,  no,  I  was  thrown  over  every  time.  Women 
are  not  to  be  trusted. 

Nell  {striking  him  gently  in  the  neck). — Men  are  much  worse.  Don't 
you  talk  that  way  about  us. 

Don  Pio. — You  are  very  naughty  and  lazy  to-day.  {Trying  to  get 
angry.)  By  my  life,  if  you  don't  begin  to  work,  I  tell  you,  I  swear  to  you, 
I'll 

A^^//.— What .? 

Don  Pio. — I'll  get  angry. 

Dolly. — Now  we're  afraid.     We're  trembling. 

Nell. — Why  don't  you  touch  the 

Don  Pio. — Order  now,  behave  yourselves.  Tell  me  something  about 
Themistocles. 

Dolly. — Oh,  yes,  he  was  the  one  who  cut  off  the  head  of  a  bad  woman 
whom  they  called  Medusa. 

Don  Pio  {lifting  his  hands  to  his  head). —  In  the  name  of  all  the  saints 
in  heaven,  don't  mix  up  history  with  mythology! 

Nell. — If  one's  a  lie,  the  other  is  too. 

Dolly. — ^And  it's  all  the  same  to  us. 

Don  Pio. — What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-day  .''  Silence,  now.  Now 
tell  me  the  principal  facts  in  the  life  of  Themistocles. 


182  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Dolly. — We  don't  like  to  meddle  in  other  people's  lives. 

Don  Pio  {reciting). — Themistocles,  a  great  Grecian,  native  of  Thebes, 
conqueror  of  the  Macedonians  {correcting  himself) — Oh,  no,  I'm  confusing 
him  with  Epaminondas.     What's  the  matter  with  my  head  ? 

Nell. — Oh,  you  don't  know  it!  you  don't  know  it! 

Dolly. — We  have  a  teacher  who's  a  dummy. 

Don  Pio  {Sorrowfully). — It's  because  you  make  me  crazy  with  your 
playing  and  with  your  foolishness.     {Gravely.)     So,  we  can't  go  on, 

Nell. — ^That's  what  I  say;  we  can't  go  on. 

Dolly. — Let's  be  little  donkeys  and  go  out  into  the  meadow  and  eat 
grass. 

Don  Pio. — My  conscience  will  not  permit  me  to  deceive  the  countess, 
who  without  doubt  believes  that  I  am  teaching  you  something  and  that 
you  are  learning  it. 

Dolly  {putting  on  the  spectacles  of  CoRONADO  which  are  lying  on  the 
table). — Dear  Don  Pio,  we  are  so  stupid. 

Don  Pio  {trying  to  get  his  glasses). — Be  careful  or  you  will  break  them, 
my  child. 

Nell. — Nice  Don  Pio,  don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  if  we  should 
all  three  go  to  take  a  little  walk  down  by  the  beach  } 

Don  Pio. — ^That's  a  fine  idea!  Wasting  the  whole  blessed  day,  even  the 
hours  consecrated  to  education.  Most  delightful,  young  ladies,  most  de- 
lightful! Do  you  take  me  for  a  figurehead,  or  a  silly  ape  .^  I,  who  represent 
knowledge  .^    I  who  am  here  to  inculcate  in  you 

Dolly. — Dear  Don  Pio,  you  don't  inculcate  anything  in  us  and  we're 
going. 

Nell. — We'll  go  on  with  the  lesson  when  we're  at  the  beach. 

Dolly. — With  the  sea  before  us  we  shall  study  about  the  voyage  of 
Columbus  to  America. 

Don  Pio  {sighing  with  discouragement). —  Oh,  what  girls!  No  one 
can  do  anything  with  them.  Well,  I  give  up,  but  first  let's  have  a  little 
grammar  lesson. 

Nell  {touching  the  ruler). — Hurrah  for  Coronado! 

Dolly  {reciting  by  heart). — Grammar  is  the  art  of  speaking  Spanish 
correctly. 

Don  Pio. — Let  us  go  on.     Dolly,  tell  me  what  is  a  participle. 

Dolly  {phlegmatically). — I  don't  want  to. 

Nell. — Participle  .^  A  participle  is  something  that  is  part  of  the  prin- 
cipal. 

^  Don  Pio  {with  gestures  which  take  the  place  of  energy). — ^You  are  stupid 


PEREZ  GALDOS  183 

little  girls.  You  haven't  the  respect  for  yourselves  that  I  see  in  other  little 
girls.  Lord!  Other  little  girls  are  serious  and  dilligent  and  try  to  learn  in 
order  to  shine  in  their  examinations,  so  that  their  parents  can  listen  to  them 
with  open-mouthed  astonishment. 

Dolly. — We  don't  want  to  shine,  and  we  don't  want  to  see  mother  with 
her  mouth  open.     Oh,  what  a  funny  teacher  you  are! 

Nell. — My  dear  Coronado,  if  you're  not  good  we  will  make  you  get 
down  on  your  knees. 

Don  P'lo. — Enough  of  that;  but  why  should  it  be  so  hard  for  you  to 
remember  such  easy  things  ?  You  will  soon  be  aristocratic  young  ladies, 
and  when  your  mother  takes  you  into  society  you  ought  to  shine.  Just 
imagine,  in  society  they  will  talk  of  the  participle  and  you  won't  even 
know  what  it  is.  My  pupils  will  make  a  nice  showing!  People  will  say, 
where  in  the  world  did  the  countess  find  these  two  ninnies  ?  Yes,  they'll 
say  that,  and  they'll  laugh  at  you  and  the  young  men  won't  like  you. 

Dolly. — ^The  young  men  will  like  us  even  though  we  don't  know  what 
a  participle  is,  nor  a  conjunction,  nor  anything  of  that  sort. 

Nell. — If  we  are  pretty  and  stylish  you'll  see  if  they  won't  like  us! 

Don  Pto. — Yes,  yes,  pretty  little  donkeys. 

Nell  {leaning  on  the  table  idly  and  looking  at  him  mockingly). —  Do 
you  know,  teacher,  that  I  have  discovered  something.  You  have  very  hand- 
some eyes. 

Dolly. — Yes,  they  look  like  two  suns  that  shine  a  good  deal. 

Don  Pio  {crossing  his  arms). — That's  right,  make  fun  of  me  as  much 
as  you  want. 

Nell. — We  are  not  making  fun  of  you,  we  are  confiding  in  you. 

Dolly. — No  indeed,  it's  because  we  like  you,  teacher,  because  you're 
very  good  and  you're  never  ill  natured. 

Nell  {stroking  his  beard). — You  are  a  nice  old  Don  PTo.  That's  the 
reason  we  like  you  so  much.     We  are  your  little  friends. 

Don  Pio  {a  little  confused). — Now  you're  flattering  me,  you  little  de- 
ceivers. 

Dolly. — Tell  me  something.     Is  it  true  that  you  have  several  daughters  ? 

Don  Pio  {sighing  profoundly). — Yes,  several. 

Nell. — Are  they  pretty  ? 

Don  Pio. — Not  as  pretty  as  the  two  I  am  looking  at. 

Dolly. — Are  they  fond  of  you  ^ 

Don  Pio  {sighing  deeply  again). — Fond  of  me;   those  girls 

Nell. — I  have  been  told  that  they  don't  care  very  much  for  you.  If 
that's  so,  never  mind,  because  we  love  you  dearly. 


184  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Dolly. — And  do  you  like  us  ?  (Don  Pio,  deeply  moved ^  makes  an  affirm- 
ative sign.) 

Nell. — Why  he  idolizes  us.  So,  we  study  when  the  notion  takes  us; 
and  when  we  don't  want  to,  we  play. 

Dolly. — And  that's  what  we  are  going  to  do  to-day. 

Nell. — First  we'll  take  a  little  walk,  and  then  we'll  go  to  see  mamma. 

Dolly  {hearing  voices  in  the  background). — It  seems  to  me  I  hear  grand- 
father's voice. 

Nell  {looking  back). — No,  it's  Don  Carmelo. 

Dolly  {looking  also). — ^And  the  mayor.  Mother  has  sent  them  to  look 
for  us. 

Scene  H 

{The  same;  the  Priest,  Doctor,  the  Mayor) 

Priest  {smiling). — Well,  young  ladies,  have  you  studied  your  lessons? 

Doctor  (looking  sympathetically  at  the  teacher,  who  is  gathering  up  books 
and  papers). — ^They  are  going  to  give  poor  Don  Pio  a  chance  to  breathe. 

Nell  {making  a  very  graceful  and  elegant  bow  to  the  mayor). — ^The 
Mayor  of  Jerusa.     (Dolly  makes  a  bow  also.) 

Mayor  {answering  with  another  bow). — Young  ladies. 

Dolly. — ^Are  you  going  to  take  us  to  the  house  where  mamma  is  ^. 

Priest.— No,  Miss  Dolly. 

Dolly. — Why  not  ? 

Priest. — Because  the  countess  is  coming  to  the  Pardina. 

Nell. — Oh  what  joy! 

Dolly.— When  .? 

Priest. — In  a  moment. 

Nell  {impatient  to  go). — Can't  we  go  to  meet  her  ? 

Priest. — Is  that  a  little  excuse  to  run  and  play  .?  But,  my  children,  you 
are  old  enough  now  to  be  more  serious. 

Dolly. — What  a  nuisance,  shut  up  all  day  long. 

Doctor. — Let  them  alone,  Don  Carmelo.  Let  them  go  out;  let  them 
play. 

Dolly  {good  naturedly). — I  wager.  Sir  Priest,  that  you  yourself  run  away 
sometimes;  when  you  don't  go  out  preaching  you  go  out  hunting,  and  in 
the  evenings  you  can't  give  up  the  billiard  table. 

Priest  {laughing). — Ha!  ha!  ha!  Oh,  you're  too  bright  for  me.  Go, 
and  leave  us  in  peace. 


PEREZ  GALD6S  185 

Doctor. — Go  to  meet  your  mother. 

Nell  and  Dolly. — Let's  run,  let's  live.  {They  run  out  at  the  back; 
each  one  taking  an  arm  of  Don  Vio^who  follows  them  with  the  quick,  short 
step  of  an  old  man.) 

Scene  III 

(Priest,  Doctor,  Mayor,  Venancio) 

Venancio  {saluting  with  respect). — Your  Honor,  this  is  a  proud  day 
for  my  house. 

Mayor. — I  come  as  a  friend.     I  am  not  here  officially. 

Venancio. — Yes,  I  understand;  as  a  friend  of  the  Count  of  Albrit; 
once  my  master,  now  my  guest. 

Mayor. — We  would  be  very  sorry  indeed  not  to  see  him. 

Venancio. — He  will  be  back  in  a  moment  from  his  walk.  He  waited 
for  you  until  ten  o'clock.  He  was  very  much  agitated  all  morning,  walking 
up  and  down  like  a  caged  lion. 

Doctor. — I  hope  that  the  good  news  which  we  bring  him  from  the 
countess  will  calm  him. 

Venancio. — Then  the  countess  consents  ? 

Mayor  {fatuously). — ^Thanks  to  me. 

Priest. — ^The  interview  will  be  held  here. 

Venancio. — ^At  what  time  ? 

Doctor. — At  twelve. 

Mayor. — ^The  cause  of  discord  between  them  must  be  exceedingly 
serious,  gentlemen,  when  Lucretia,  who  is  never  afraid  to  solve  the  most 
problematic  questions  of  morals  in  the  face  of  the  world,  trembles  before 
this  poor,  sick  old  man,  who  is  almost  blind. 

Priest. — What  makes  you  think  that  it  is  a  question  of  morals  ^  We 
discount  all  the  stories  that  are  told  hereabouts;  exaggerated  as  they  are 
by  malice,  envy,  fondness  for  gossip. 

Doctor. — Discount  them  as  much  as  you  will,  there  will  always 
remain 

Priest. — What  ? 

Doctor. — ^The  naked  truth. 

Mayor. — Not  naked,  by  Jove.     It's  too  much  dressed! 

Venancio  {who  is  looking  back). — Silence,  they're  coming. 

Priest.— Who  ? 

Venancio. — The  countess  and  her  daughters. 


186  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Scene  IV 
{Same;  Lucretia,  Nell,  and  Dolly) 

Venancio  {kissing  the  countess'  hand), — ^The  countess  is  welcome. 

Lucretia. — I  am  glad  to  see  you.  But  I  cannot  come  joyfully  into 
this  gloomy  house.      {She  looks  gloomily  about  her.) 

Nell. — Dear  mamma,  this  is  our  house. 

Lucretia. — ^Yes,  yes,  I  didn't  mean  that.  This  old  house  is  very  dear 
to  me  because  it  is  where  my  little  girls  have  their  nest.  {She  sits  downnn 
the  armchair,  the  girls  stand  beside  her  on  either  side.) 

Nell. — It  would  be  a  nice  nest  if  we  could  keep  you  here  with  us. 

Dolly. — And  smother  you  with  our  kisses. 

Mayor. — ^These  adorable  creatures  would  like  to  imprison  their  illus- 
trious mother. 

Priest. — We  would  be  only  too  glad  of  that. 

Lucretia. — I  shouldn't  object  to  the  imprisonment,  providing  that  pub- 
lic manifestations  should  be  suppressed. 

Priest. — Her  ladyship  will  have  to  resign  herself  to  the  affectionate 
demonstrations  of  a  loving  population.  You  can't  say  that  the  Jerusanos 
have  treated  you  badly. 

Mayor. — ^There  is  always  a  joyful  welcome  here  for  the  Countess  of  Lain. 

Doctor. — It  is  as  I  told  your  ladyship,  we  have  overcome  your  re- 
pugnance to  entering  the  Pardina  and  I  do  not  hesitate  to  assure  you  that 
you  will  be  grateful  to  us  for  it. 

Lucretia  {sighing). — Yes,  I  am  in  the  Pardina.     I  have  taken  the  first 

step  and {suddenly  deciding  not  to  express  her  thought  before  the  girls) 

May  I  ask  if  the  Count  of  Albrit,  who  showed  such  an  ardent  desire  to  talk 
with  me,  is  at  home  ? 

Nell. — No,  he  is  not,  but  he  will  soon  be  back  from  his  short  walk. 

Doctor. — Perhaps  we  ought  to  tell  him. 

Mayor. — ^Yes,  he  should  be  notified  that  the  countess  is  waiting  for  him. 

Dolly. — Mamma,  do  you  want  us  to  go  and  look  for  him  ? 

Lucretia. — Would  you  have  to  go  very  far  ? 

Nell. — Oh,  no,  he's  probably  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

Venancio. — Yes,  there  you  will  surely  find  him. 

Dolly. — Let's  go.     {She  kisses  her  mother.) 

Doctor. — I  will  accompany  them. 

Lucretia. — ^Thanks,  doctor. 

Nell  {kisses  her  mother). — You'll  see,  we'll  bring  him  back  very  soon. 
{The  doctor  and  the  girls  go  out.     Venancio  follows.) 


PEREZ  GALD6S  187 

Scene  V 
(LucRETiA,  the  Priest,  and  the  Mayor) 

Lucretia  {anxiously  with  deep  interest). — ^Tell  me,  Don  Carmelo,  have 
you  seen  him  to-day  ? 

Priest. — No,  my  lady. 

Mayor. — Put  away  this  childish  fear,  your  ladyship.  It  is  much  better 
that  you  should  talk  together  and  have  it  out,  like  good  friends. 

Priest. — A  frank  understanding  is  often  the  result  of  discussion  or  even 
of  a  quarrel. 

Lucretia  {looking  down). — It  seems  very  difficult.  {She  directs  an 
inquiring  look  at  the  priest.)  The  priest  of  Jerusa  is  not  as  frank  with  me 
as  I  deserve.  He  does  not  dare  to  repeat  the  horrible  things  that  my  father 
in  law  has  said  of  me. 

Priest. — Horrible  things!  Upon  my  word,  not  that.  Yesterday, 
while  dining  at  my  house  {anxiously^  without  deciding  to  be  sincere)  he  said 
something  about  his  son,  your  illustrious  husband,  who  is  dead.  He  spoke 
of  his  many  virtues,  his  unusual  merits.     He  wept  a  little. 

Lucretia. — ^And  what  else  ? 

Priest. — He  showed  a  very  great  fondness  for  his  grand-daughters. 
When  Angelo  and  I  heard  him  talking  of  them  it  seemed  almost  an  exag- 
geration of  paternal  affection. 

Lucretia. — It  wouldn't  be  strange  if  misfortune  should  embitter  his 
proud  and  haughty  soul  and  drive  the  good  Don  Rodrigo  to  madness. 

Priest. — I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that.  I  simply  note  the  fact  that 
the  count  needs  the  most  delicate  care  and  attention. 

Lucretia. — He  will  have  that.  I  shall  tell  Venancio  that  while  he  re- 
mains at  the  Pardina  he  must  be  cared  for;  he  must  be  looked  after  with 
all  solicitude  and  kindness. 

Mayor. — And  if  I  can  be  of  any  service 

Lucretia  {to  the  priest). — You  were  saying,  Don  Carmelo  ? 

Priest. — ^Nothing  further,  my  lady,  the  count  said  nothing  more  ex- 
cept to  ask  me  anxiously  to  arrange  for  this  interview.  Not  being  able  to 
see  you  last  night,  I  commissioned  the  mayor  and  the  doctor  to  make  the 
arrangements.     You  have  been  kind  enough  to  accede  to  their  request. 

Mayor. — And  when  we  arrive  here  to  see  his  lordship  we  are  told  that 
he  has  gone  out  to  walk. 

Lucretia  {with  interest,  hut  anxiously). — ^Alone  } 

Priest. — I  think  not. 


188  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Lucretia. — With  whom  ? 

Priest. — I  don't  remember.  (Venancio  comes  in  right.)  Venancio, 
who  did  you  say  went  walking  with  the  count  ? 

Scene  VI 

{The  same;  Venancio;  later  Senen) 

Venancio. — It  was  Senen.  But  before  reaching  the  cross  roads  the 
count  sent  him  away  saying  that  he  wanted  to  walk  alone.     Senen  came 

back,  and 

V  .     Lucretia  {quickly.) — Is  he  here  .f* 

^  '     Venancio. — It  was  on  purpose  to  tell  you  that  he  wished  to  be  received 

by  your  ladyship  that  I  have  come. 

Lucretia  {surprised  and  with  a  certain  repugnance). — Now.?  {Chang- 
ing her  mind.)  Yes,  yes,  I  will  see  him.  (Senen  appears  right;  and  haw- 
ing remains  near  the  door.) 

Mayor  {aside  to  the  priest). — ^Who's  this  fellow  ? 

Priest. — ^An  old  servant  of  Lain. 

Mayor. — Oh,  yes,  probably  a  depository  of  secrets.     Are  we  in  the  way  ? 

Priest. — I  think  we  are. 

Mayor  {aloud  to  Lucretia). — Don  Rodrigo  will  soon  be  here,  your 
ladyship. 

^'Jj.    Lucretia. — ^Are  you  going  to  leave  me  ? 
jjC^-IT  Priest. — We  will  not  leave  the  Pardina. 

Mayor. — We  shall  come  back. 

Priest. — Courage,  your  ladyship,  do  not  be  afraid  of  the  lion. 

Lucretia  (looking  at  Senen), — I  shall  first  have  to  speak  to  this  dog. 
{The  mayor  and  the  priest  go  out  back;  Venancio  follows  them). 

Scene  VII 
(Lucretia,  and  Senen,  who  remains  at  a  respectful  distance  from  her) 

Lucretia  {standing  looks  at  him  with  interest^  but  without  hiding  her 
contempt). — I  know  already  that  you  have  seen  the  old  man  and  that  you 
have  talked  with  him. 

Senen  {keeping  his  distance). — My  enemies  have  told  you. 

Lucretia  {hiding  her  fear). — What  difference  does  it  make  to  me  ^.  All 
I  will  have  to  do  will  be  to  give  him  something  so  that  he  can  live,  and  leave 
me  in  peace. 


PEREZ  GALDOS  189 

Senen. — I  doubt  it;  as  he  is  proud  he  will  not  take  alms;  since  he  is 
over  scrupulous  and  quarrelsome  he  will  want  a  scandal. 

Lucretia  {trembling). — A  scandal,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Has  he  told 
you  ? 

Senen  {mysteriously). — He  has  told  me  nothing.  A  friend  of  mine 
who  used  to  live  in  Valencia  with  the  count  told  me  this;  that  since  the 
death  of  his  son,  may  God  keep  him  in  peace,  all  he  has  done  has  been  to 
ferret  out  the  past,  the  misdeeds  of  the  past. 

Lucretia. — Like  a  ragman  hunting  in  the  garbage.  {Anxiously) 
He'll  come  back  to  you.  He'll  ask  you  a  thousand  things.  He  knows  that 
you  are  my  servant. 

Senen  {coming  closer). — ^Your  ladyship  will  always  have  in  me  a  faithful 
servant. 

Lucretia  {trying  to  get  away  from  the  perfume  which  emanates  from 
Senen  she  pretends  she  has  a  cold  and  uses  her  handkerchief). — I  know  that; 
I  have  confidence  in  you. 

Senen. — I  serve  your  ladyship  disinterestedly  in  everything  which  you 
ask,  whatever  it  may  be,  but  I  trust  that  your  ladyship  will  not  forget  that 
her  humble  protege,  the  poor  Senen,  does  not  deserve  to  remain  halfway 
in  his  career. 

Lucretia. — WTiat  do  you  mean  ^  Do  you  want  more .?  You  are 
becoming  a  chronic  beggar. 

Senen  {coming  closer;  countess  goes  back). — ^Your  ladyship  will  pardon 
me.  The  expenses  of  living,  which  each  day  are  greater,  oblige  me  to 
trouble  you. 

Lucretia. — Do  you  refer  to  a  promotion  ? 

Senen. — ^Yes,  my  lady. 

Lucretia  {displeased). — But  I  can  do  nothing  more. 

Senen  {calmly). — ^The  Marquis  of  Pescara,  who  has  a  great  deal  of 
influence,  will  give  me  the  promotion  if  only  your  excellency  will  speak  to 
him,  or  send  him  word. 

Lucretia. — ^You  are  asking  a  perfectly  absurd  thing;  ridiculous!  {Aside^ 
going  further  away.)  To  have  to  endure  this  reptile!  To  hear  him!  To 
srrell  him!   And  simply  because  I  am  afraid  of  him! 

Senen  {still  calm,  even  in  his  servility). — If  your  ladyship  does  not 
wish  to  do  a  kindness  to  her  faithful  servant,  then  consider  that  I  said 
nothing. 

Lucretia  {wishing  to  terminate  the  interview). — Well,  all  right,  it  shall 
be  done.     But  it  is  very  doubtful  if  I  shall  see  Richard. 

Senen  {officiously). — You  will  see  him  to-morrow. 


190  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Lucretta  (with  sudden  interest,  coming  dose  to  him,  forgetting  the 
heliotrope). — Where  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?     Where  ? 

Senen.  At  the  Veralba.  Is  not  your  ladyship  going  to-morrow  to 
the  country  house  of  the  Donesteve  ? 

Lucretia. — Yes.     And  there  you  think How  do  you  know  that 

Richard  will  be  in  Veralba  ? 

Senen. — I  say  what  I  know.     I  can  prove  it. 

Lucretia. — Oh,  you  know  it  through  his  valet,  who  is  your  cousin. 
Are  you  sure  ? 

Senen. — ^Absolutely.  Will  your  ladyship  promise  me  to  ask  the  mar- 
quis for  my  promotion  ? 

Lucretia  (goes  still  further  back,  ashamed  of  having  kept  up  a  familiar 
conversation  with  her  servant). — Yes,  yes,  I  promise  not  to  forget  the  affair. 
I'll  do  what  I  can,  with  the  understanding  that  you  repay  me  with  perfect 
loyalty. 

Senen  (with  the  air  of  loyal  devotion). — My  lady! 

Lucretia  (ivith  her  handkerchief  to  her  nose). — ^You  may  go  now;  your 
demands,  perfumed  as  they  are,  give  me  the  headache. 

Venancio  (coming  quickly  from  hack). — My  lady,  the  count  is  just  now 
coming  into  the  Pardina. 

Lucretia  (ivith  sudden  fear). — Heavens!   is  he  coming  here  ? 

Venancia  (looking  back). — He  is  coming  this  way. 

Lucretia  (to  Senen). — Go,  quickly! 

Venancio. — Go  out  this  way.  (He  tnakes  him  go  out  right.)  Would 
your  ladyship  Hke  me  to  meet  him  and  to  tell  him 

Lucretia  (very  much  disturbed). — Yes,  yes,  don't  let  him  come;  tell 
him  that  it  would  be  better  to-morrow. 

Venancio. — Here  he  is  now. 

Lucretia  (resigning  herself). — ^There  is  no  help;  there  is  no  way  out  of 
it  now.  (Strengthening  herself.)  Let  him  come.  I'll  not  be  afraid  of  him. 
(She  becomes  apparently  calm;  the  count  appears  at  the  door  and  takes  off 
his  hat.     As  he  enters  exit  Venancio  and  closes  the  door.) 

Scene  VIII 

(Lucretia,  the  Count) 

Count. — Countess.  (He  bows  respectfully;  she  bows  coldly.)  I  thank 
you  for  your  kindness  in  having  consented  to  this  interview. 

Lucretia. — It  was  my  sacred  duty  to  accede  to  your  request,  here  or 


PEREZ  GALDOS  191 

anywhere  else,  I  say,  duty,  for  during  a  short  period  of  time  I  was  called 
your  daughter. 

Count. — ^Those  times  are  past.  You  were,  in  a  way,  an  accident.  By 
birth  vou  were  a  foreigner,  even  more  so  by  your  feelings.  You  never 
identified  yourself  with  my  family  nor  with  the  Spanish  character.  Against 
my  will  my  beloved  son  chose  you  as  his  wife,  the  daughter  of  an  Irishman 
settled  in  the  United  States,  who  had  come  here  in  the  oil  business.  (Sigh- 
ing.) America  has  indeed  been  fatal  to  me.  Then,  as  every  one  knows, 
I  opposed  the  marriage  of  the  Count  of  Lain.  I  struggled  with  his  obsti- 
nacy and  his  blindness.  I  was  conquered.  Time  and  you  have  shown 
me  to  be  right.  You,  by  rendering  my  son  unhappy  and  hastening  his 
death. 

Lucretia  {angry,  hut  still  fearful). — ^That  is  not  the  truth,  count. 

Count  {coldly). — What  I  say  is  the  truth.  My  poor  son  died  of  ex- 
haustion from  the  fever  which  the  scandalous  conduct  of  his  wife  brought 
on.     Every  one  knows  that. 

Lucretia  {proudly,  rising). — Be  careful  of  what  you  say.  You  are 
making  yourself  the  echo  of  vile  calumnies. 

Count  {with  gentleness). — Lucretia,  it  may  possibly  be  that  I  am  mis- 
taken and  that  you  are  better  than  I  think  you  are.  You  would  convince 
me  of  this  error  if  you  showed  any  impulse  to  confess  to  me  the  truth. 

Lucretia  {embarrassed). — ^The  truth  ? 

Count. — Yes;  it's  a  very  delicate  matter  concerning  which  I  should  like 
to  question  you. 

Lucretia. — When  ? 

Count. — Now. 

Lucretia  {in  fear). — Question  me  ?     Do  you  think  I  am  a  criminal  ? 

Count. — I  think  you  are. 

Lucretia  {panic  stricken). — ^This  is  insupportable.   I  cannot  endure  it. 

Count. — No,  no.  You  cannot  refuse  to  answer  me.  What  I  am  going 
to  ask  is  most  grave,  and  the  very  fact  that  I  am  the  one  to  ask,  and  that 
you  are  the  one  to  answer,  should  give  it  a  certain  solemnity.  It  is  not  I 
who  am  speaking  to  you  now,  it  is  your  dead  husband;  it  is  my  son,  who 
lives  again  in  me.     {Pause.)     Sit  down. 

Lucretia. — Have  pity  sir,  you  are  torturing  me. 

Count  {sits  down  in  front  of  Lucretia). — Pardon  me.  It  is  necessary. 
You  will  have  to  suffer,  Lucretia.  {Pause.  Lucretia  dares  not  look  at 
him.)  Upon  returning  to  Cadiz  from  my  unfortunate  voyage  I  was  given 
a  letter  from  Raphael  in  which  he  expressed  his  sadness,  his  deep  bitter- 
.ness.     For  him  life  had  lost  all  interest;    he  was  ill  and  in  his  despair  did 


192  THE  GRANDFATHER 

not  want  to  get  well.     He  was    dying  of  melancholy,  of  the  loss  of  all  his 
illusions,  and  also  of  the  shame  of  seeing  his  name  betrayed. 

Lucretia  {looking  up  at  him). 

Count. — My  son  had  been  separated  from  his  wife  for  a  year. 

Lucretia. — Has  any  one  ever  said  that  it  was  my  fault  ? 

Count. — Don't  interrupt  me.  It  is  your  turn  to  listen.  Raphael  did 
not  tell  me  anything  definite.  He  simply  expressed  his  state  of  mind  with- 
out giving  any  cause  for  it.  Naturally  when  I  received  the  letter  I  went 
immediately  to  Valencia. 

Lucretia. — Alas ! 

Count  {deeply  moved). — ^Two  hours  before  arriving  my  son  had  died. 
A  sudden  collapse,  and  then  death,  and  all  in  a  few  hours.  {He  weeps; 
pause.)  He  died  in  the  room  of  an  inn,  still  dressed  lying  on  the  bed;  at- 
tended by  hired  servants.     Oh,  God,  the  pity  of  it! 

Lucretia  {very  much  moved,  sobbing). —  Even  though  you  may  not 
believe  it,  count,  I  loved  him. 

Count  {with  sudden  anger ,  wiping  his  tears). — ^That  is  a  lie.  If  you 
loved  him,  why  did  you  not  run  to  his  side  the  moment  you  knew  he  was 
sick  .'' 

Lucretia  {uncertainly). — Because — I  don't  know,  the  complications 
that  come  into  one's  life 1 

Count. — Let  me  finish.  You  can  easily  understand  my  despair  when 
I  found  him  dead.  {He  crosses  his  hands,  sobbing.)  Oh,  this  terrible  pain, 
this  agonizing  sorrow  of  my  old  age;  harder  than  all  other  ills  I  had  ever 
endured.  To  see  him  dead!  To  speak  to  him  without  receiving  an  answer! 
He  could  not  return  my  caresses,  not  even  by  a  movement,  nor  a  look,  nor 
with  his  voice.     All,  all  was  plunged  in  the  awful  silence  of  death. 

Lucretia  {a  prey  to  intense  emotion,  sobs;  pressing  her  handkerchief 
against  her  eyes). — It  was  horrible!  fearful!  You  have  no  heart;  you  don't 
know  what  it  is;  weep.  {He  notices  that  she  is  weeping.  Pause.)  What 
a  comfort  it  would  be  if  now  we  could  weep  together,  you  and  I,  for  this 
beloved  one.  (Lucretia  takes  one  or  two  steps  towards  him;  there  is  a  move- 
ment as  though  they  would  embrace;   they  hesitate:   the  count   turns  away.) 

Lucretia  {returning  to  her  chair). — My  tears  are  sincere. 

Count. — Naturally,  seeing  my  sorrow,  and  you  are  not  made  of  bronze. 
(Lucretia  bows  her  head;  silence.)  You  are  silent.  {He  rises.)  Now 
I  see,  now  I  see  the  unhappy  Lucretia  in  the  attitude  which  she  ought^to 
take;  that  of  resigned  submission  awaiting  the  sentence  of  justice.  {Pause.) 
Will  you  confess  that  your  conduct  towards  my  son,  at  least  at  certain  times 
in  his  life,  was  not  what  it  should  have  been  ^. 


PEREZ  GALDOS  193 

Lucrctia  {timidly). — I  confess  it.  But  I  ought  to  say  something  for 
my  own  justification. 

Count. — I  am  listening. 

Lucretia. — My  infidelities  towards  Raphael  were  a  long  time  ago. 

Count. — ^They  date  from  the  second  or  third  year  of  your  marriage. 
At  the  end  of  the  first  year  the  son  was  born  to  whom  they  gave  my  name. 
He  died  in  three  or  four  months. 

Lucretia. — You  are  right. 

Count. — After  some  time,  I  don't  know  exactly  how  long,  since  this 
happened  during  my  residence  in  America,  the  Countess  of  Lain  began  to 
tread  the  broad  road. 

Lucretia  {trying  desperately  to  heat  a  retreat). — If  you  had  found  your 
son  alive  I  am  sure  he  would  not  have  judged  me  so  harshly. 

Count. — He  was  more  harsh  than  I  am;  he  was  implacable. 

Lucretia. — In  his  last  moments  .^ 

Count. — In  his  last  moments.     Believe  what  I  say. 

Lucretia  (stupefied) . — But  you  have  just  told  me 

Count. — That  I  found  him  dead;  yes. 

Lucretia  (pause;   they  look  at  each  other). — ^And  then 

Count. — ^The  dead  speak. 

Lucretia  (hesitating  between  credulity  and  superstitious  fear). — Raphael  ? 

Count. — Desperate,  maddened,  I  remained  I  know  not  how  long  be- 
side the  body  of  my  poor  son,  without  thinking  of  anything  but  of  him  and 
the  vast  mystery  of  death.  After  a  w^hile  I  began  to  notice  what  was  around 
me;  to  look  at  his  clothes;  at  the  furniture  which  he  had  used,  at  the  room. 
(Pause.  Lucretia  listens  to  him  with  anxious  expectation,)  In  the  room 
there  was  a  table  covered  with  books  and  papers,  and  among  them  there 
lay  a  letter. 

Lucretia  (trembling). — ^A  letter  .? 

Count. — Yes.  Raphael  was  writing  it  when  he  was  taken  ill.  Death 
came  quickly;  attacked  him  with  fury;  he  called;  they  came  to  his  help; 
all  was  in  vain.  The  letter  remained  there  half  written,  and  there  it  was, 
alive,  speaking.  It  was  himself.  I  read  it  without  taking  it  up,  with- 
out touching  it;  leaning  over  the  table  as  I  would  have  leaned  over  his 
bed  if  I  had  found  him  alive.     The  letter  says 

Lucretia  (breathless;   her  mouth  dry). — Was  it  for  me  } 

Count. — Yes. 

Lucretia. — Give  it  to  me.  (The  count  shakes  his  head.)  Then  how 
am  I  to  know  what  is  in  it .'' 

Count. — It  suffices  that  I  repeat  its  contents.     I  know  it  by  heart. 


194  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Lucretia. — ^That  is  not  enough.  I  must  read  it.  I  must  see  the  hand- 
writing. 

Count. — That  is  not  necessary.  I  do  not  lie.  You  know  that  well. 
It  begins  with  bitter  complaints  which  tell  of  married  unhappiness.  Then 
follow  these  solemn  words  {repeating  them  word  for  word).  'I  warn  you 
that  if  you  do  not  send  me  my  daughter  immediately  I  shall  take  steps  to 
claim  her  legally.  I  want  her  at  my  side.  The  other  girl,  the  one  who  is 
not  my  daughter,  according  to  your  own  declaration  in  the  letter  which  you 
"wrote  to  your  lover,  the  painter  Carlos  Eraul,  dead  a  year  ago,  I  will  leave 
to  you;   I  give  her  to  you,  I  throw  her  in  your  face.'     (Pause.) 

Lucretia  {stupefied). — It  said  that.''     It  says  that? 

Count. — Do  you  doubt  it  ? 

Lucretia. — I  don't  doubt;  I  don't  know.  {Seizing  an  idea.)  Perhaps 
the  letter  is  forged.  Some  enemy  of  mine  might  have  written  it  in  order  to 
slander  me. 

Count  {with  a  gesture  as  though  taking  out  the  letter).  —  My  son 
wrote  it. 

Lucretia  {turning  aiuay). — No,  no,  I  don't  want  to  see  it.     Horrible! 

Count. — But  you  do  not  deny 

Lucretia  {deciding  to  deny  it). — Yes.     I  do  deny  it  entirely. 

Count. — And  I,  fool  that  I  was,  I  hoped  to  find  in  you  a  soul  large 
enough  to  complete  my  son's  revelation,  telling  me 

Lucretia  {frightened). — What.'' 

Count  {severely  simple). — ^Telling  me  which  of  the  two  children  is  the 
one  which  usurps  my  name;   which  one  personifies  my  dishonor. 

Lucretia. — Oh,  infamous!    It  is  not  true. 

Count  {with  severe  authority). — ^Tell  me  at  once  which  is  the  false  one 
or  which  is  the  true  one.  I  must  know  it.  I  have  a  right  to  know  it  as  head 
of  the  house  of  Albrit.  This  historic  house,  great  in  the  past;  mother  of 
kings  and  princes,  of  judges  and  of  warriors  and  rich  in  holy  women,  has 
kept  spotless  the  honor  of  its  name.  To-day  alas!  I  cannot  prevent  this 
shameful  case  of  legalized  bastardy.  I  cannot  prevent  the  law  from  trans- 
miting  my  name  to  my  two  successors,  these  innocent  children.  But  I 
want  to  make  an  exclusive  moral  testament  in  favor  of  the  real  one,  of  the 
one  who  is  of  my  blood.  She  shall  be  the  true  inheritor;  she  shall  be  my 
family  and  uphold  my  honor  hereafter.  The  other,  no.  I  repudiate  her; 
I  curse  her  vulgar  origin  and  her  usurping  existence. 

Lucretia. — Have  pity!  I  can  endure  no  more.  {Overwhelmed  she 
falls  sobbing  upon  a  chair.     Long  pause ^ 

Count. — Lucretia,  do  you  acknowledge  at  last  that  reason  is  on  my 


PEREZ  GALDOS  195 

side?  Yes,  weep  (believing  that  gentleness  may  be  more  efficacious).  Per- 
haps my  words  are  too  severe;  perhaps  I  question  you  too  tyrannically.  It 
is  hard  to  overcome  the  natural  bluntness  of  my  character.  Pardon  me. 
(Gently.)  I  do  not  command  now,  I  do  not  accuse;  I  am  not  the  judge; 
I  am  the  friend,  the  father.  And  as  such  1  beg  of  you  that  you  deliver  me 
from  this  awful  doubt.  (Lucretia  silent;  biting  her  handkerchief.)  Cour- 
age; one  word  is  sufficient;  say  that  word  and  I  shall  say  nothing  more. 
The  truth,  Lucretia,  the  truth  is  the  only  thing  that  can  save  us. 

Lucretia  (after  a  terrible  struggle;  rises  suddenly  and  as  though  beside 
herself;  ivalks  feverishly  up  and  down  the  room). — ^This  is  too  much.  Where 
can  I  fly  ?     Where  can  I  go  to  hide  myself?     Pity  me! 

Count. — Do  you  not  answer  me  ? 

Lucretia  (fiercely  with  unbrokenresolution, standing  before  him.) — Never! 

Count. — ^Are  you  in  earnest  ? 

Lucretia. — ^Never!     I  shall  die  first. 

Count  (with  calm  authority). — ^Then,  what  you  do  not  wish  to  tell  me 
I  shall  find  out. 

Lucretia. — How  ? 

Count. — ^Ah,  that  is  my  afi^air. 

Lucretia. — Poor  old  man;   your  madness  inspires  pity. 

Count. — Your  madness  inspires  none  in  me.  One  does  not  pity  the 
corrupt,  those  who  are  steeped  in  sin. 

Lucretia  (angry;  discomposed). — Ha,  you  dare  to  insult  me?  Albrit  ? 
You  belong  to  a  race  of  madmen,  of  burlesque  knights,  who  wear  nothing 
but  pasteboard  honor.  What  would  become  of  the  old  lion  if  I  did  not 
help  him  ?  But  I  am  generous;  I  will  forgive  his  insults;  I  will  see  that 
he  does  not  die  in  an  almshouse,  or  dragging  his  weary  feet  along  the  high- 
way. 

Count  (with  supreme  contempt). — Lucretia  Richmond,  perhaps  God 
may  pardon  you;  I  too  would  pardon  you  if  forgiveness  and  contempt 
could  go  together. 

Lucretia  (going  to  the  door). — It  is  enough.  (To  the  girls  who  half 
open  the  door  without  daring  to  come  in). — ^You  may  come  in. 


Scene  IX 

(Lucretia,  the  Count,  Nell  and  Dolly,  who  run  to  embrace  their 
mother.  Behind  them  are  Gregoria  and  Venancio.  Alittlela  terthe  Priest 
and  the  Doctor.) 


196  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Lucretia. — My  precious  ones;  give  me  a  thousand  kisses.  {They  kiss 
her.) 

Nell  {noticing  her  face). — Mother  dear,  you've  been  crying. 

Lucretia. — Your  grandfather  and  I  have  been  reviving  sad  memories. 

Dolly  {looking  at  the  count,  who  remains  immovable). — Grandfather 
has  been  crying  too.      {She  comes  up  to  him.) 

Count. — Come,  embrace  me,      {They  both  come  to  htm;  embrace  him.) 

Lucretia  {aside  to  Gregoria  and  Venancio). — You  will  watch  over 
him  and  take  care  of  him,  but  keep  an  eye  on  him  all  the  time. 

Dolly  {to  the  count). — This  evening  we'll  take  a  walk. 

Count. — Yes,  yes,  I  don't  want  to  be  separated  from  you;  we'll  talk 
together;    we'll  study  together. 

Nell. — You  will  teach  us  arithmetic  and  history. 

Count. — History;  no,  that  you  will  teach  me.  {The  priest  and  the 
doctor  come  in,  back;   they  both  come  up  to  Lucretia.) 

Priest. — How  was  it }     Is  there  a  reconciliation  .'' 

Lucretia. — Impossible.  But  I  would  recommend  you  to  be  very 
watchful.  {To  the  doctor)  And  you.  Doctor  Angulo,  I  would  especially 
recommend  that  you  observe  him 

Priest. — Poor  gentleman. 

Doctor. — Don't  be  anxious;  I  will  look  after  him  particularly.  {He 
crosses  over  to  salute  the  count.) 

Priest. — Do  you  insist  upon  leaving  us  ? 

Lucretia. — I  must  be  in  Veralba  to-day.      {As  though  going  out.) 

Nell. — Mother  dear,  shall  we  go  home  with  you  ?  Or  shall  we  stay 
a  little  while  with  grandfather  .? 

Lucretia. — Whatever  your  grandfather  wishes. 

Count. — If  your  mother  is  going  away  this  evening,  you  ought  to  stay 
with  her  until  she  goes. 

Doctor. — And  how  are  you  feeling,  your  lordship  1 

Count. — ^Very  badly. 

Doctor. — ^Your  eyesight  ? 

Count. — Yes;  all  the  morning  I  have  noticed  a  darkness;  a  vagueness 
in  objects  as  I  look  at  them.      {Looking  about  as  though  trying  to  see.)     I 

can  scarcely  distinguish {he  looks  at  Lucretia,  who  proudly  returns 

his  look.)  My  growing  blindness  keeps  me  from  seeing  anything  now  but 
large  things, — the  sky,  the  sea.  But  I  can  see  Lucretia,  for  she  is  monstrous! 
{His  voice  dies  out;  he  remains  immovable  and  rigid;  profound  silence; 
they  all  look  at  him.) 


PEREZ  GALDOS  197 

ACT  III 

{The  same  setting  as  in  Act  II) 

Scene  I 

(Gregoria  is  putting  the  room  in  order.  The  Count  seated  in  a  pro- 
found study.     Nell  and  Dolly) 

Gregoria. — My   lord    {the   count  does   not   hear;    he    remains    lost     in 
thought  and  talks  to  himself.     Gregoria  comes  up  to  him).     Your  lordship, 
don't  you  hear  me  ?     Have  your  thoughts  gone  wool  gathering  ? 
\.\y\  Count. — ^The  truth;   the  truth;    I  want  the  truth. 

5^'  Gregoria  {lifting  her  voice). — Your  lordship!    (Nell  and  Dolly  come 
running  in  right;  behind  them  Don  Pio.) 
Nell. — Grandfather  dear! 
Dolly. — Are  you  coming  to  take  a  walk  with  us  ?     {They  both  kiss  him,) 

Count  {coming  out  of  his  deep  study). — No,  to-day  you  can't  go  walking, 
my  children;  there's  a  storm  coming.     {He  looks  towards  the  window.)     It's 
raining  now.      {Sky  grows  dark;   distant  thunder  is  heard.) 
^i     A^^//. — It  seems  to  be  thundering. 

•     Don  Pio  {coming  forward  respectfully  and  timidly). — Good  day  to  your 
lordship. 

Count. — Poor  Coronado;  these  naughty  children  weary  you;  and  did 
they  know  their  lessons  to-day  ? 

Don  Pio  (with  noble  sincerity). — Your  lordship,  not  a  single  word,  and 
I  am  telling  the  truth. 

Count  {gayly). — What  monkeys  you  are;    kiss  me  again,  little  dunces. 

Dolly. — Now  you  hear  what  he  says,  Don  Pio. 

Don  Pio. — I  am  listening.  And  I  don't  forget  what  his  lordship  said 
to  you  last  night;  that  it  wasn't  worth  while  to  put  anything  else  in  the 
young  ladies'  heads. 

Nell. — And  that  what  we  need  is  to  have  our  wills  educated. 

Count. — Yes,  that's  what  I  said. 

Dolly. — I  don't  like  to  know  what's  in  books;  I  like  things. 

Count. —  i  hat's  right. 

Don  Pio. — And  with  the  permission  of  his  lordship,  I  would  like  to 
ask,  *  What  are  things.  Miss  Dolly  ? ' 

Dolly. — Why,  just  things. 

Nell. — Yes,  things. 


198  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Count. — ^Yes,  my  children,  another  teacher  much  less  gentle  than 
your  Don  Pio  is  going  to  teach  you  the  art  of  living.  She  is  called  expe- 
rience {changing  his  tone).  Come,  to-day  the  lessons  are  over.  Coronado, 
you  may  go. 

Don  Pio. — All  you  w^ill  have  to  do  this  evening  will  be  to  go  over  your 
history  lesson  a  little. 

Count  {rising,  he  leads  Don  Pio  aside). — No,  you  and  I  will  go  over  the 
history.  Come  back  in  a  little  while.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 
(Don  Pio  bows  and  goes  out.  The  count  indicates  to  Gregoria  that  she  is 
to  go  out  also.) 

Scene  H 

(Count,  Nell  and  Dolly) 

Nell. — Now  we're  all  alone,  we  three.     (Dolly  runs  to  the  window.) 

Count. — We  two,  you  mean I  say  it  because  you What  are 

you  doing,  Dolly  ? 

Dolly. — I  am  looking  at  the  sky;  how  black  it  is;  we  are  going  to  have 
a  regular  deluge. 

Count. — All  the  better.     A  deluge  wouldn't  be  out  of  place. 

Nell. — What  are  you  saying  ? 

Count. — Come  here,  Dolly.  (Dolly  comes  near.)  I  was  saying  that  you, 
although  you  are  two  (he  points  to  one  after  another)  seem  to  me  to  be  but 
one.  (The  children  look  puzzled.)  What  do  you  think  of  that .?  I  mean 
to  say  that  in  you  there  is  something  more  than  enough. 

Dolly. — Something  more  than  enough  ^  Now  I  understand  it  less  than 
ever. 

Nell. — Grandfather  means  to  say  that  in  both  of  us,  not  in  one  alone, 
there  is  both  bad  and  good. 

Dolly. — And  that  there's  more  than  enough  of  the  bad. 

Count. — And  that  you  must  cast  it  away  from  you. 

Nell. — Or  perhaps  it  might  mean  that  one  of  us  is  bad  and  the  other 
good. 

Count. — Perhaps. 

Nell. — In  that  case,    I  am  the  bad  one  and  Dolly's  the  good  one. 

Dolly. — No,  no,  I  am  the  bad  one.  Because  I  am  always  inventing 
mischief. 

Count  (tormented  by  a  thought). — Come  close  to  me,  little  ones;  I  want 
to  see  your  faces  better.     (They  stand  one  at  each  side  of  him  and  the  count 


PEREZ  GALD6S  199 

puts  his  arms  around  them;  the  three  heads  are  very  close  together.)  Yes, 
this  way,  so.  {Looking  with  fixed  attention.)  I  can't  see  well.  {Dis- 
couraged.) My  poor  old  sight  is  going,  going,  when  most  I  need  it.  And 
no  matter  how  much  I  look  at  you  1  see  no  difference  between  you. 

Nell. — ^They  say  that  we  look  alike;  but  Dolly  is  a  little  darker  than 
r  am;   not  quite  so  fair. 

Count  {deeply  interested). — And  you  both  have  black  hair,  very  black, 
haven't  you  ? 

Dolly. — Mine  is  a  little  darker  than  Nell's. 

Nell. — ^There's  another  difference  between  us.  My  nose  isn't  quite  so 
flat. 

Dolly. — And  my  mouth  is  larger  than  yours. 

Count. — And  your  teeth  ? 

Nell. — ^We  both  have  very  pretty  ones.  I  don't  mean  to  praise  our- 
selves. 

Dolly. — But  I  have  one  eye-tooth  that's  a  little  prominent;  it  sticks 
out  a  little;  feel  it  grandfather.  {She  touches  her  mouth  with  the  count's 
finger.) 

Count. — That's  true.     Quite  true. 

Nell. — ^There  are  some  other  differences. 

Count. — When  I  look  at  your  eyes  with  my  dim  ones  they  seem  to  me 
equally  pretty.  Nell,  do  me  the  favor  to  look  at  your  sister's  eyes;  and  you 
Dolly,  look  at  Nell's.     Tell  me  the  exact  color. 

Nell. — Dolly's  eyes  are  black. 

Dolly. — ^Nell's  eyes  are  black.     But  mine  are  blacker. 

Count  {with  anxious  interest). — Yours  blacker,  Dolly  .?  Have  they 
perhaps  a  green  cast  ? 

Nell. — I  think  they  have;   a  bluish  green. 

Dolly  {looking  closely  at  her  sister's  eyes). — ^Yours  have  little  golden 
gleams.     Yes,  and  a  little  green  too. 

Count. — But  they're  black.  Your  papa's  eyes  were  as  black  as  a 
raven's  wing. 

Nell. — Papa  was  very  handsome. 

Count  {sighing). — Do  you  remember  him  ? 

Dolly. — Why  shouldn't  we  remember  him  ? 

Nell. — Poor  father;    he  was  so  fond  of  us. 

Dolly. — He  adored  us. 

Count. — When  did  you  see  him  for  the  last  time  ? 

Nell. — I  think  it  was  two  years  ago,  when  he  went  to  Paris.  That 
time  they  took  us  out  of  school. 


200  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Count. — Did  he  say  good  by  to  you  ? 

Dolly. — Yes,  indeed,  he  said  he  would  come  back  very  soon;  and  he 
never  came  back.     Then  he  went  to  Valencia. 

Nell. — Mamma  started  for  Paris  too,  but  she  stayed  in  Barcelona. 
She  didn't  take  us  with  her. 

Dolly. — When  she  came  back  to  Madrid  she  was  very  unhappy.  I 
suppose  because  papa  was  away. 

Count. — ^And  how  do  you  know  she  was  unhappy  } 

Nell. — Because  she  was  never  at  home;  and  that  was  a  sure  sign  that 
she  was  bored.     We  used  to  eat  all  alone. 

Count. — And  was  it  then  that  they  brought  you  here? 

Dolly. — ^Yes,  grandfather. 

Count. — ^Tell  me  something  else.     Were  you  very  fond  of  your  papa  ? 

Nell.— Very. 

Count. — I  have  an  idea  that  one  of  you  cared  for  him  less  than  the 
other. 

Both  (protesting). — Oh,  no,  indeed!     We  both  loved  him  alike. 

Count  (after  a  pause;  looking  at  them  with  eyes  that  can  see  so  little). — 
And  do  you  think  that  he  was  equally  fond  of  you  both  .? 

Dolly. — Of  course  he  was. 

Count. — ^Are  you  sure  of  that  .f* 

Nell. — Of  course  we're  sure.  He  used  to  write  us  little  letters  from 
Paris. 

Count. — ^To  each  one  separately. 

Dolly. — ^No,  to  both  of  us  together;  and  he  used  to  say,  'Little  flowers 
of  my  soul,  the  only  stars  in  my  sky.'  But  he  never  wrote  us  from  Va- 
lencia. 

Nell. — ^No,  we  didn't  receive  a  single  letter  from  Valencia.  We  used 
to  write  to  him  but  he  never  answered.  (Long  pause;  the  count  rests  his 
forehead  upon  his  hands,  which  rest  upon  his  cane;  and  he  remains  a  long 
while  in  deep  meditation). 

Dolly. — Grandfather,  are  you  sleepy  ? 

Count  (sighing,  lifts  his  head  and  rubs  his  eyes). — No,  this  isn't  sleep; 
it  is  thought.  (Noise  of  the  storm,  the  rain  beats  upon  the  window  panes; 
the  thunder  is  louder.) 

Nell  (running  to  the  balcony). — What  a  storm! 

Count  (aside;  thoughtfully). — I  could  tell  nothing  from  their  features. 
(Encouraged)  Perhaps  their  characters  will  speak.     (Aloud)     Little  ones! 

Dolly. — Grandfather,  may  I  go  out  on  the  balcony  to  gather  the  hail  ? 

Nell  (quickly). — Oh,  no,  I'm  chilly,  don't  open  the  window. 


PEREZ  GALDOS  201 

Dolly  (mockingly). — Oh,  what  a  deHcate  little  child  you  have  become! 
(To  the  count)  Shall  I  open  the  window  ? 

Count. — Do  what  your  sister  tells  you. 

Nell. — Don't  let  her  open  it.  This  winter  I  caught  an  awful  cold  and 
it  was  all  her  fault. 

Dolly. — It  was  her  fault.  Because  she  would  go  out  on  the  day  of  the 
big  snow  storm. 

Nell. — No,  it  was  her  fault;  I  stayed  two  hours  in  the  woods  making 
snowballs. 

Dolly  (aggressively). — Did  you  call  those  snowballs  ^ 

Nell. — And  then  I  had  to  spend  two  hours  more  in  the  square,  drawing 
the  church  tower  and  the  snowy  trees. 

Dolly. — ^You  didn't  either. 

Nell  (excited). — Yes,  I  did. 

Dolly  (both  of  them  a  little  angry). — ^You're  not  telling  the  truth. 

Nell. — Grandfather,  she  says  that  I  told  a  story. 

Count. — ^And  you  never  tell  an  untruth  .?     It  isn't  in  your  nature,  Nell. 

Dolly. — She  told  me  yesterday  that  I  was  a  story  teller. 

Count. — And  what  did  you  do  ? 

Dolly. — I  began  to  laugh. 

Nell. — Well,  I  won't  stand  having  any  one  say  that  I  tell  stories.  (She 
■begins  to  cry.) 

Count. — ^Are  you  crying,  Nell  ^ 

Dolly  (laughing), — It's  all  nonsense,  grandfather. 

Nell. — I'm  very  sensitive;  and  it  just  takes  a  little  thing  to  offend  my 
dignity. 

Count. — Your  dignity! 

Dolly. — What's  the  matter  with  her  is  that  she's  jealous! 

Count. — Why  ? 

Dolly  (with  mischievous  gayety). — Because  everybody  likes  me  better. 

Nell. — I'm  not  jealous. 

Count. — Come,  Nell,  don't  cry.  There's  nothing  the  matter.  And  you, 
Dolly,  don't  laugh;   don't  you  see  you  have  hurt  her  feelings  ^ 

Nell. — It's  always  that  way.     She  laughs  at  everything. 

Count  (to  himself). — Nell  has  dignity.  She  must  be  the  one.  (To 
Dolly  with  some  severity.)     Dolly,  I  told  you  that  you  musn't  laugh. 

Dolly. — But  it  seems  so  funny. 

Count  (to  Nell,  caressing  her). — ^You  have  a  noble  nature,  Nell,  one 
can  see  in  you  good  blood,  good  race.  Come,  now,  make  up  widi  each 
other. 


202  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Nell. — I  don't  want  to. 

Dolly  {mockingly). — ^Nor  I  either. 

Count. — ^That  laugh,  Dolly,  seems  to  me  a  little  coarse. 

Dolly. — All  right  then.  {A  sudden  transition;  she  becomes  serious;- 
she  goes  back;  sits  down,  and  resting  her  elbows  on  a  little  table,  she  remains 
immovable,  in  a  sad  attitude,  expressing  shame  or  remorse.) 

Nell  {in  alow  tone  to  the  count). — Dolly  is  hurt;  you  called  her  coarse^ 
And  that  makes  her  feel  badly.     Poor  little  girl! 

Count. — ^Tell  me,  my  child;  have  you  ever  noticed  in  Dolly  any  signs 
of 

JV^//.— Of  what.? 

Count. — Of  coarseness,  of  a  vulgar  nature  ? 

Nell. — No,  grandfather.  What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  Dolly  isn't 
vulgar.     I  thought  you  said  it  as  a  joke.     Dolly  is  very  refined. 

Count. — Are  you  fond  of  her  .? 

Nell. — I  love  her  with  all  my  heart. 

Count. — And  weren't  you  angry  with  her  when  she  told  you  that  you 
didn't  tell  the  truth  ? 

Nell. — Oh,  no,  that's  nothing.  We  quarrel,  and  then  we  make  up  in  a 
minute.  Dolly  is  an  angel.  She  ought  to  be  a  little  more  serious  some- 
times. I  love  her;  we  love  each  other.  I  want  to  go  and  hug  her  and  beg 
her  to  forgive  me. 

Count. — Another  sign  of  nobility.  Nell,  you  are  noble.  Come  to  me 
{embraces  her).     And  your  sister,  where  is  she  ? 

Nell. — Over  there.     She's  angry.     Call  her  and  forgive  her. 

Count. — ^Tell  me  something  first.  You  were  saying  something  a  little 
while  ago  about  your  pictures,  or  drawings. 

Nell. — It's  Dolly  who  draws,  she  has  a  great  talent  for  it. 

Count  {gloomily). — Dolly! 

Nell. — Why,  didn't  you  know  it .?     She  is  an  artist. 

Count. — What  do  you  say  .? 

Nell. — She  draws  and  makes  lovely  water  colors.  Haven't  you  seen 
her  album  .? 

Count. — Dolly,  come  here,  my  child,  (Dolly  comes  slowly,  led  by 
Nell.)     So  you're  the  one 

Dolly  {childishly). — Don't  pay  any  attention  to  what  she  says,  grand- 
father. I  was  just  making  sketches.  We  used  to  go  out  to  the  country 
and  I  copied  everything  that  I  saw  in  my  album;  trees,  houses,  and 
animals. 

Count. — Who  taught  you  .?       (Dolly  shrugs  her  shoulders.) 


PEREZ  GALDOS  203 

Nell. — ^Nobody.     What  she  knows  she  learned  by  herself,  just  looking 
at  things. 

Count  {with  agitation  which  he  cannot  conceal). — ^Tell  me,  do  you  feel 
an  intense  fondness  for  painting  ?     Do  you  feel  a  longing  in  your  soul  to 
reproduce  everything  that  you  see  ? 
Dolly. — Yes,  grandfather. 

Nell. — Ever  since  she  w^as  a  little  child  she  has  been  sketching. 
Count  (to  Nell). — And  you  do  not  draw  .? 
Nell. — I'm  too  stupid;   I  can't  make  anything. 

Count  (bitterly). — So  you're  an  artist,  Dolly;    you.     Then (He 

puts  his  hands  to  his  head.) 

Nell. — I'll  show  you  her  album.     (She  runs  out,  right.) 
Count  (rising  in  agitation  he  walks  up  and  down). — Then  she  is  the 
one!   She  is  the  false  one!   Cursed  art! 

Dolly    (frightened;    following   him). —  Grandfather    dear,    what's    the 
matter .'' 

Count. — Leave  me  alone;    unhappy  creature,  why  were  you  born  ? 
Dolly  (anxiously). — ^Why  was  I  born?     (sorrowfully.)      You're  right; 
if  you  don't  care  for  me,  then  why  should  I  live  ? 

Count  (stopping,  takes  her  by  the  arms  and  looks  at  her  fixedly). — Do 
you  think  you  live  for  mv  sake,  for  the  sake  of  the  unhappy  Count  of  Albrit  ? 
Dolly.— Yes,  I  do.^ 
Count. — Do  you  care  for  me  ? 

Dolly. — Of  course  I  do.     Give  me  the  chance  to  prove  it. 
Count  (aside,  beginning  to  walk  again). — She  is  trying  to  get  my  affec- 
tion by  flattery.     (Aloud.)     Well,  my  dear  girl,  we  shall  await  the  proof. 
Do  you  love  me  ?     Do  you  love  me  truly  .? 
Dolly. — More  than  you  think  for. 

Count. — Do  you  love  me  more  than  your  sister  loves  me  ? 
Dolly. — Oh,  more  ?     No.   Poor  Nell,  I  would  offend  her  if  I  would 
say  that  she  loved  you  less  than  I  do.     Both  of  us  are  your  grandchildren 
and  we  love  you  just  alike. 

Count  (aside,  thoughtfully). — ^This  sounds  like  nobility  of  soul. 
Nell  (coming  in  quickly  with  the  album). — Here  it  is. 
Count  (aside). — What  if  Dolly  should,  after  all,  be  the  legitimate  one 
and  Nell  the  intruder  .?     O  God,  give  me  light!     (The  two  girls  turn  the 
leaves  of  the  album.) 

Nell. — Not  this  one;   it  isn't  finished. 

Dolly. — Nor  this  one;   it  is  the  worst  one  I  have  done. 

Count  (absentmindedly). — I  may  be  on  a  false  track  as  far  as  the  art  is 


204  THE  GRANDFATHER 

concerned.  {Puzzled.)  Oh,  heavens!  I  ask  for  light.  {There  is  sudden 
flash  of  lightning.) 

Nell. — Look  at  this  one;   it  is  the  church  tower. 

Count  {much  moved.  Going  away  from.  them). — Leave  me  alone,  I 
don't  want  to  see  anything;  keep  your  book,  {A  loud  stroke  of  thunder 
IS  heard;   rain  and  hail  beat  furiously  against  the  window  panes.) 

Nell  {letting  her  book  fall). — Gracious,  what  a  stroke! 

Dolly. — Isn't  it  fearful  ^     {The  room  grows  dark.) 

Count  {wildly.  Going  up  and  down  the  stage). — Which  of  the  two  is 
frightened  by  the  storm  .? 

Nell. — I  am.  {Both  children  stand  together  at  a  distance  from  the 
count.) 

Dolly. — I  am. 

Count  {in  great  agitation  listening  to  the  voices  of  his  grandchildren). — 
Which  of  the  two  is  speaking  to  me  ^ 

Nell. — I,  grandfather. 

Dolly. — L      {The  two  voices  are  heard  simultaneously.) 

Count. — It's  only  one  voice. 

NelL—lx!s  I. 

Dolly. — It's  I.      {Simultaneously.) 

Count  {irritated;  he  takes  a  few  steps  towards  the  children). — Wliich  is 
it .?  Who  is  it,  for  heavens  sake!  I  heard  but  one  voice.  Which  one  of  you 
said,  it  is  I  ? 

Dolly  {in  fear;  getting  closer  to  her  sister,  and  further  away  from  the 
count). — Grandfather,  don't  scold  us. 

Nell. — We  are  afraid  of  you.     {The  thunder  sounds  more  distinctly.) 

Count  {angrily). — Which  of  you  is  afraid  of  me  ? 

Nell  and  Dolly. — I. 

Count  {overcome). — Which  one,  tell  me  ^ 

Nell  {trembling). — We  are  afraid  of  the  storm. 

Dolly. — We're  not  afraid  of  you. 

Count  {his  momentary  madness  turns  suddenly  into  weariness.  He 
falls  into  a  chair). — ^The  storm  is  in  my  soul.  {The  two  come  running  to 
his  side.)  Do  you  know  what  storm  it  is  that  I  have  here  .?  It  is  called 
doubt.     Come,  my  children,  embrace  me. 

Scene  HI 
(Count,  Nell,  Dolly,  Priest,  Doctor,  Venancio,  Gregoria) 
Priest. — How  is  your  lordship  feeling  ? 


PEREZ  GALDOS  205 

Count. — ^Very  well,  thank  you,  very  well. 

Doctor  {lookitig  at  the  sky). — Thank  heaven!   it  is  passing. 

Count. — What  ? 

Venancio. — ^^Ihe  storm,  your  lordship.     It's  going  towards  the  east. 

Count. — No,  it's  not  passing;   it  is  still  in  all  its  fury. 

Priest  {from  the  window,  which  is  now  lighted  up  by  the  sun). —  The 
sky  is  clearing;  the  sun  is  shining. 

Count. — For  me  it  is  darkest  night;  lighted  up  once  in  a  while  by 
flashes  of  lightning. 

Venancio  {aside  to  the  priest). — ^You  see  how  he  raves  ? 

Doctor. — ^Your  lordship,  I  recommend  to  you  again  that  you  put  out 
of  your  mind  every  idea  of 

Count  {bitterly  interrupting  him). — Silence!  Do  you  want  to  take  from 
me  the  onlv  thing  that  remains  to  me  of  my  ancient  possessions  ? 

Priest. — Oh,  no. 

Count. — You  are  taking  from  me  the  power  of  thought;  you  are  en- 
couraging this  policy  of  prohibitions  and  restrictions  that  these  {indicates 
Venancio  and  Gregorio)  are  practicing  on  me. 

Venancio. — ^That  we  are  practicing,  your  lordship  ^. 

Priest. — What  does  this  mean,  Venancio  .'' 

Count. — Let  me  go  on.  Listen  to  this  example  of  a  perfect  system. 
When  I  arrived  at  the  Pardina  my  good  friend  and  former  servant  Venancio 
gave  me  for  my  service  a  quick,  intelligent  boy  who  was  to  be  my  valet.  All 
my  life  I  have  had  such  a  servant;  it  would  have  seemed  impossible  to  have 
gotten  along  without  him.  Well,  to-day  I  do  get  along  without  him;  for 
to-day  they  have  taken  the  servant  away  from  me,  and  yet  you  see  I  am  in 
good  trim. 

ISIell. — He  will  come  back  surely. 

Dolly. — How  did  they  dare  to  do  it .'' 

Venancio  {choosing  his  words). — Your  lordship;    it  is  because 

Gregoria  {excusing  herself). — We  had  to  send  him  to  cut  grass  on  the 
lawn.      {The  priest  and  the  doctor  look  at  each  other  in  disgust.) 

Count. — You  probably  sent  him  to  cut  it  for  me.  Listen:  You  are 
all  the  time  saying  that  you  are  poor;  but  I  know  that  you  will  soon  be  very 
rich.  I  see  you  on  the  way  to  wealth;  especially  if  Gregoria  persists  in 
practicing  on  me  the  sublime  art  of  economy. 

Gregoria  {frightened). — What  is  your  lordship  saying? 

Priest. — What  has  happened  ^ 

Count. — Nothing.  Only  that  Gregoria,  who  is  always  anxious  to 
save,  has  suppressed  my  favorite  drink,  good  coffee. 


208  THE  GRANDFATHER 


Count  {severely). — What  do  you  mean  ? 

Venancio. — Your  Excellency  has  heard  me;  I  have  nothing  more  ta 


say. 


Priest  {aside  to  Venancio). — For  God's  sake  be  prudent! 

Count  {angrily  rising  up). — Silence!  It  is  not  fitting  that  you  speak 
discourteously  any  longer  to  your  master. 

Venancio. — I  have  no  master. 

Doctor  {aside  to  Venancio.     Holding  him). — Careful,  careful. 

Venancio. — I  am  speaking  to  my  guest,  and  I  simply  want  to  warn 
him,  without  malice,  without  strong  words  and  with  all  respect  that 

Count. — What  ? 

Venancio. — ^That  the  gentlemen  present,  his  good  friends,  and  this 
humble  servant,  propose  to  take  your  lordship 

Count. — Where  ? 

Venancio. — ^To  a  very  much  more  convenient  lodging  than  the  Pardina. 

Count  {angrily). — Oh,  I  understand  you  now.  My  heart  tells  me  the 
villainy  you  contemplate;  you  want  to  shut  me  up  in  an  asylum.  In  an 
insane  asylum,  perhaps. 

Priest  {conciliatingly). — Do  not  get  angry,  your  lordship,  and  listen 
to  us. 

Doctor  {conciliatingly). — Be  calm. 

Count. — ^A  prison!  Isolation!  and  why  .f*  So  that  I  cannot  discover 
the  ignominious  truth,  the  dishonor!  They  do  not  dare  to  do  away  with 
me,  so  they  shut  me  up;   they  bury  me  alive. 

Doctor  {trying  to  quiet  him). — No,  it  isn't  that.  We  are  trying  to  find 
for  your  lordship  a  place  where  he  can  have  physical  and  mental  rest. 

Count. — ^And  in  order  to  do  that  you  take  away  my  liberty. 

Venancio  {brutally). — And  I  say,  why  does  your  lordship  want  freedom 
at  your  age,  sick  as  you  are  .f* 

Count. — Why  do  I  want  my  freedom  ?  Do  you  dare  to  think  of  de- 
priving me  of  it } 

Venancio  {without  daring  to  answer  affirmatively.  He  takes  a  step 
towards  the  count). — I 

Count  {with  haughty  severity.  Stopping  him  with  a  gesture). — Back, 
lackey,  and  you  others,  his  accomplices  in  this  villainy;  respect  the  old 
man,  respect  the  master.  Do  not  bind  these  hands  which  raised  you 
up  from  poverty.  {Threatening  them.)  See,  they  are  still  strong.  {His 
voice  becomes  strong.)  Let  any  one  dare  to  lay  a  hand  on  the  lion  of  Albrit; 
let  any  one  touch  these  gray  hairs,  or  this  frail  body!  If  he  does,  I  shall 
lay  him  prone  at  my  feet.     I  will  tear  him  to  pieces.     {To  the  priest  who. 


PEREZ  GALDOS  209 

standing  near  the  door,  tries  to  keep  him  from  going  out.)  Let  me  pass. 
(To  Venancio,  who  on  the  other  side  is  standing  as  though  to  cut  off  retreat  in 
that  direction.)  Let  me  pass.  (Venancio  and  the  priest  silent  and 
frightened,  step  aside.      The  count  goes  out  with  firm  step.) 

ACT  IV 

[Same  stage  setting  as  for  Acts  II  and  III) 

Scene  I 

{The  Priest  and  the  Doctor  are  seated  talking;  they  have  just  finished 
smoking  their  cigarettes.  Venancio  at  the  door  in  the  back  is  looking  into 
the  room;   later  Gregoria) 

Doctor. — Yes,  we  are  agreed. 

Priest. — ^There  must  be  no  violence;  you've  already  seen  into  what 
a  state  he  got  when  we  simply  suggested  it.  {To  Venancio.)  Is  he  still 
in  his  room  ^. 

Venancio  {seeing  Gregoria  coming). — Gregoria  will  tell  us. 

Gregoria  {from  the  hack). — Yes,  he  is  still  in  his  room.  He  went  there 
to  get  over  the  fever  brought  on  by  his  fury. 

Doctor. — Solitude  will  have  calmed  him. 

Priest. — He  has  already  had  half  an  hour  of  solitude.  {He  rises  im- 
patiently.) Time  is  passing,  and  we  haven't  decided  upon  anything. 
(Senen  enters;   he  carries  a  bag  in  his  hand.) 

Scene  II 

{The  same;    Senen) 

Senen. — Here  I  am,  back.      {He  places  the  hag  in  a  chair.) 

Priest. — Well,  Senen,  you  have  just  come  in  time. 

Venancio. — Did  you  come  from  Veralba  ^ 

Gregoria. — What's  the  news  ^. 

Senen. — Much  and  good. 

Priest. — What  is  it  .^     What  is  it .'' 

Doctor. — Is  the  countess  coming  back  ? 

Senen. — To-morrow.  There's  something  new.  The  Reverend  Prior 
of  Zaratay 

Priest  {quickly). — Yes,  we  know  already.  He  has  the  intention  of 
catechising  the  countess  and  bringing  her  back  into  the  narrow  path.     Go  on. 


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212  THE  GRANDFATHER 

ISfell  {clapping  her  hands). — What  joy! 

Senen. — In  order  to  introduce  them  into  society. 

Nell. — Oh,  you're  fooHng  me,  Senen;  hut,  if  it  should  be  true,  and  if 
you  were  right,  do  you  know,  I  would  give  you  a  scarf  pin  better  than  the 
one  that  you  have  on  ? 

Senen  {glowing  with  vanity). — If  you  will  keep  it  a  secret,  I  will  tell 
you  something.  But  you  have  to  promise  me  that  this  is  just  between  us 
two.     Word  of  honor  ^ 

Nell. — Yes,  my  word  of  honor;  and  the  scarf  pin,  if  it  turns  out  rhat 
you  haven't  deceived  me.  {Senen  hesitates,  wishing  to  he  coaxed.)  Tell 
me  quick. 

Senen. — Well,  now,  you  mustn't  tell. 

Nell. — Oh,  hurry  up. 

Senen. — It  has  been  decided  that  you  are  to  be  married. 

Nell  {surprised,  blushing). — I  ?     I  am  to  be  married  ? 

Senen. — Yes,  you.  With  the  young  Duke  of  Utrecht.  You  know  him, 
Paquito  Utrecht,  the  Marquis  of  Breda.  He  has  had  this  title  since  he 
was  six  months  old.  I  tell  you  that's  a  good  match.  He's  rich,  good- 
looking,  stylish. 

Nell  {pretending  not  to  believe;  trying  not  to  laugh  because  she  does 
not  wish  to  appear  too  pleased). — Oh,  you're  telling  me  fairy  tales,  but  you 
cannot  fool  me;  do  you  think  I'm  a  silly  .? 

Senen  {with  emphatic  respect). — I  salute  your  ladyship;  the  illustrious 
Marchioness  of  Breda. 

Nell. — Oh,  you  goose.      {But  wanting  to  hear  more.)     But  tell  me 

{The  voice  of  the  count  is  heard  callingllS^ELL  and  Dolly.) 

Senen. — I  hear  the  cry  of  Albrit;  I  don't  want  him  to  see  me. 

Nell. — ^Then  go  out  this  way.     {She  makes  him  go  out  right.) 

Scene  VI 
(Nell  and  Count  in  background) 

Count. — Nell,  where  are  you  ?  I  am  looking  for  you;  I  am  calling 
you;   and  where  is  Dolly  ? 

Nell  {crossly). — She  isn't  dressing  and  she  won't  let  me  dress  myself. 

Count. — Where  is  she  now  ^ 

Nell. — She's  in  the  kitchen  cooking  something.  Don't  you  think 
that's  very  foolish.  I  have  already  told  Gregoria  that  she  must  be  more 
careful  about  your  food. 


PEREZ  GALDOS  213 

Count. — Did  you  know  that  when  I  went  upstairs  to  my  room  I  was 
surprised  to  find  there  a  surprising  transformation.  They  had  put  back  the 
washstand  they  had  taken  away  yesterday,  the  rug  and  the  curtains.  {En- 
thusiastically.) It  is  owing  to  you,  my  dear  child,  a  real  Albrit,  that  this 
miracle  has  been  performed.     Blessings  on  you. 

JSlell  {surprised  and  a  little  disconcerted). — I  don't  deserve  your  thanks 
this  time;    this  is  Dolly's  work.     She's  playing  housekeeper  to-day. 

Count. — ^There  was  another  surprise  besides  the  one  of  which  I  told  you. 

Nell. — Another  .? 

Count. — It  seemed  to  me  like  a  fairy  tale.  The  servant  who  had  been 
my  valet  presented  himself  suddenly  with  some  delicious  coffee  served  in 
finest  china. 

Nell. — ^That  was  Dolly  too. 

Count. — Dolly  .? 

Nell. — ^Yes,  it  is  true.  Dolly  is  very  clever.  She  knows  how  to  cook 
and  to  do  lots  of  things,  and  she  has  a  wonderful  will,  so  that  sometimes 
no  one  can  do  anything  with  her.  Poor  Dolly!  She  thinks  that  you  are 
angry  with  her  and  she  is  trying  to  win  your  favor  again. 

Count. — I  angr}^  ^     Tell  her  to  come  immediately. 

Nell  {calling  out  at  right). — Dolly!  Venancio,  tell  Dolly  to  come. 
There  she  is,  going  out;  Dolly,  come!  Grandfather  is  calling  you.  {Answer- 
ing to  something  which  DoLLY  says  from  without.)  Oh,  he  says  he's  not 
angry.     You  can  come.     {To  the  count.)     She's  coming. 

Scene  VII 

(Count,  Nell,  and  Dolly,  her  sleeves  rolled  up  and  wearing  a  big 
kitchen  apron.) 

Dolly. — I  didn't  want  to  come  up  looking  this  way,  grandfather. 

Count. — ^Your  sister  is  going  to  make  herself  very  beautiful  this  after- 
noon and  aren't  you  going  to  dress  too  ? 

Dolly. — Do  you  want  me  to  ^ 

Count. — No,  I  don't  tell  you  that  you  must;  do  what  you  please. 

Dolly. — ^Then,  if  you  will  allow  me  I  will  stay  at  home.  {To  Nell.) 
What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

Nell. — You  know  already;  are  you  going  to  give  me,  or  not,  the  key 
of  the  large  wardrobe  ? 

Dolly  {making  a  concession). — Why  yes.      {She  puts  her  hand    to    her 
pocket  and  takes  out  a  key  and  gives  it  to  her.)     Here,  take  it. 

Nell. — I  will  be  dressed  in  a  minute  now.     {Exit  right.) 


214  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Scene  VHI 
(Count,  Dolly) 

Count. — Come  here.  {Feeling  her.)  Kitchen  apron;  how  elegant 
you  are!  {He  kisses  her.)  I  am  not  angry  with  you.  If  I  said  anything 
that  hurt  your  feehngs,  forgive  me. 

Dolly. — Tou  ask  me  to  forgive  you  ?  Me  ?  You're  the  one  who 
ought  to  forgive  us  for  all  the  trouble  we  give  you. 

Count. — I  am  not  so  abandoned  by  the  hand  of  God  as  I  thought! 
{Holding  her  hack.)     Don't  go  away.     Give  me  your  hands;    these  hands 
of  a  ministering  angel. 

Dolly. — And  what  do  you  think  of  the  transformation  in  your  room  t 
Pacorrita  helped  me,  and  it  took  us  no  time  to  arrange  your  den. 

Count. — Marvelous!    Tell  me,  have  you  finished  your  cooking? 

Dolly. — Not  yet.  If  Gregoria  lets  me  I  am  going  to  make  something 
delicious  for  you  this  evening  which  you  will  like  very  much. 

Count. — Dear  child;  you  are  my  household  angel. 

Dolly. — But  you  don't  really  love  me. 

Count  {embarrassed). — Yes  I  do,  the  fact  is  that 

Dolly. — You  mustn't  think  that  I  am  doing  these  things  to  make  you 
like  me.  Treat  me  badly  and  I'll  do  the  same  thing.  I  am  doing  this 
because  it's  my  duty;  because  I  am  your  granddaughter.  And  I  can't 
stand  it  to  see  a  gentleman  like  you,  who  was  once  powerful,  the  master  of 
all  this  country,  neglected  by  common  people  who  aren't  as  good  as  the 
dust  that  you  brush  off  your  shoes. 

Count  {with  emotion). — Let  me  kiss  you  again,  dear  child.  So  you 
think,  you  say 

Dolly. — ^And  I  know  what  I'm  doing.  To-night  after  supper  I  am 
going  to  begin  to  arrange  your  clothes.  They're  in  pretty  bad  condition. 
That  good  for  nothing  Gregoria  hasn't  taken  a  stitch  yet. 

Count  {folds  his  hands;  looks  at  her,  trying  to  peer  at  her  through  his^ 
half-blind  eyes). — ^And  you  do  all  this  for  me  ? 

Dolly. — ^Yes,  even  though  I  know  that  you  care  for  me  less  than  you 
do  for  Nell.  I  know  that  Nell  deserves  more  affection  than  I  do;  she's 
more  clever,  and  besides  she  is  better. 

Count  {disturbed). — But  I  am  very  fond  of  you  too.  The  fact  is,  I 
hardly  know  how  to  put  it.  {Greatly  embarrassed.)  Listen  to  me  now. 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  noticed  in  your  sister  a  certain  selfishness;  a 
certain  lack  of  sympathy;  no —  Nell  can't  be  the  one.  {Looking  more 
closely  at  Dolly).  If  you  should  be  the  one. 


PEREZ  GALDOS  215 

Dolly  (embarrassed;   anxious).  —  I  ?     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Count. — Oh  if  only  you  should  be  the  one!  {With  deep  emotion.)  Yes, 
you. 

Dolly  {without  understanding). — Grandfather,whatdoyousay  ?  What 
are  you  thinking  about  ? 

Count  {in  despair;  throws  himself  on  the  chair). — I  cannot  think.  I 
am  floundering  in  a  sea  of  doubt.  {Tenderly.)  Dolly,  where  are  you  ? 
Come  to  me.  Put  your  arms  around  me.  Perhaps  you  are  the  one.  {In 
hopeless  confusion.)  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know.  Providence,  perhaps, 
will  tell  me  the  truth.     (Senen  comes  in  right.)     Who  is  that  ? 

Dolly. — It  isn't  Providence,  grandfather,  it  is  Senen. 

Scene  IX 
(Count,  Dolly,  Senen) 

Senen. —  My  lord,  it  is  Senen  Corchado. 

Count. —  You  may  approach. 

Senen. —  I  understand  that  your  lordship,  upon  hearing  of  my  return, 
said  that  you  wished  to  speak  to  me. 

Count. —  Yes,  yes.  I  sent  for  you.  {To  Dolly.)  Dear  child,  go 
back  to  your  kitchen  and  your  cooking.  Work  hard  so  that  we  shall  have 
a  good  supper  to-night. 

Dolly. —  That's  what  I  want.  Good  by.  {She  kisses  him  and  runs 
out.) 

Scene  X 
(Count  and  Senen) 

Count. —  Come  nearer.     I  wish  to  speak  to  you. 

Senen  {coming  nearer). —  I  am  at  your  service,  your  lordship. 

Count  {suspiciously). —  Can  any  one  hear  us  ."^  (Senen  examines  the 
doors  and  closes  them.)  Those  wretches  are  spying  upon  us  behind  the 
doors,  and  listening  to  everything  that  is  said. 

Senen. —  Nobody  can  hear  us. 

Count  {rises  and  goes  towards  Senen)  . —  I  doubt  somewhat  as  to  whether 
you  are  sufficiently  devoted  to  me  to  answer  all  the  questions  that  I  ask. 

Senen. —  I  will  answer  everything;  providing  that  your  lordship  does 
not  ask  me  anything  contrary  to  my  dignity. 


216  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Count. —  Your  dignity! 

Senen. —  However  humble  I  am,  your  lordship,  I 

Count. —  Pardon  me.  I  shall  not  ask  you  any  questions,  because  if 
we  have  to  deal  with  discretion  and  dignity 

Senen. —  If  your  lordship  thinks  that  he  will  make  me  reveal  any 
secrets  belonging  to  his  daughter  in  law 

Count  {interrupting  him  quickly). —  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  that. 
Let  us  leave  Lucretia  aside.  We  shall  respect  the  false  modesty  in  which 
she  veils  her  infamies.  All  I  wish  is  some  exact  information  concerning  a 
man 

Senen  —  Who 

Count. —  Who  was  intimately  connected  with  her  at  a  certain  time. 

Senen. —  I  understand. 

Count. —  The  painter,  Carlos  Eraul.  You  were  in  his  service  once 
after  leaving  the  service  of  my  son.  {Vehemently.)  Senen,  for  the  sake 
of  all  you  care  for  most;    for  the  sake  of  your  mother,    tell  me 

Senen  {pretending  to  have  delicate  sentiments). —  Don  Rodrigo,  in  the 
name  of  all  the  glorious  past  of  your  lordship,  I  beg  that  you  will  not  ask 
me  anything  that 

Count  {with  intense  eagerness). —  At  least  give  me  a  little  light;  one 
or  two  dates,  personal  details.  Without  offending  any  one,  without  lacking 
in  respect  to  your  former  mistress,  you  can  tell  me,  was  he  a  presumptuous, 
frivolous  man  .? 

Senen. {dryly). —  Somewhat. 

Count. —  He  was  the  son  of  a  poor  herdsman  of  Eraul  in  Navarre. 
(Senen  responds  affirmatively  by  shake  of  head.)  His  artistic  talent  opened 
up  a  way  to  him;  but  outside  of  the  artistic  education  which  he  gave  him- 
self, and  his  study  of  nature,  he  was  an  ignorant  person,  a  brute 

{Senen  remains  silent,  giving  no  sign.)  Neither  very  tall  nor  very  short; 
dark,  black  eyes,  vigorous,  strong  will.  {Irritated  by  Senen's  silence.) 
Answer!  Lucretia  made  his  acquaintance  at  one  of  those  revels  called  a 
Kermess.  You  were  a  servant  of  Eraul  when  he  died.  (Senen  nods 
affirmatively.)  On  the  day  of  his  death  Kis  friends  seized  his  sketches  and 
his  drawings.  (Senen  assumes  a  gloomy  look.)  They  also  seized  letters 
from  Lucretia,  photographs,  presents  with  dedications  {with  more  hypocrisy 
than  sincerity  Senen  pretends  to  be  scandalized,  and  denies,  luith  shake  of 
his  head.)  Do  not  deny  it.  And  you;  you  also  kept, —  I  know  it  —  tell 
the  truth.  You — you  have  in  your  possession.  Tell  me  —  (Senen 
refuses  to  say  anything;  the  count,  irritated,  takes  him  by  his  coat  collar 
and  shakes  him.)     Why  don't  you  speak,  you  spy  ? 


PEREZ  GALDOS  217 


Senen. —  My  lord 

Count. —  Answer,  wretch! 

Senen  {with  assumed  dignity). —  Your  lordship  does  not  know  me. 

Count  {shaking  him  still  harder). —  I  know  you  too  well.  Your  dis- 
cretion is  not  a  virtue;  it  is  cowardice,  servility,  complicity;  it  is  not  the 
honest  man  who  keeps  silent  about  another's  guilt.  You  are  a  slave,  faith- 
ful to  the  promises  that  your  master  has  bought  from  you.  {He  pushes 
him  aiuay;  Senen  falls  back  a  few  steps.)  May  God  curse  you,  villain! 
May  the  light  which  He  denies  me  fail  you  too!  May  you  become  forever 
dumb  and  blind.  May  you  live  without  ever  knowing  the  truth,  surrounded 
by  clouds,  plunged  in  eternal,  terrible  doubt,  in  a  void  as  vast  as  your 
imbecility!    {JVith  contempt  and  repugnance.)     Go!    Leave  my  presence! 

Senen  {at  a  distance;  walking  backwards). —  The  lion  is  showing  his 
claws.  I'll  get  into  a  safe  place.  {As  he  goes  out  he  meets  Don  Pio,  who 
enters  timidly.  He  says  to  him  aside.)  Careful,  my  friend,  he  has  the 
fever  again.     {Exit.) 

Scene  XI 
(Count,  Don  Pio) 

Don  Pio  {comes  forward  timidly). —  My  lord.  {The  COUNT  neither  sees 
nor  hears.)     Your  lordship! 

Count  {suddenly,  in  a  loud  voice). —  Eh! 

Don  Pio  {steps  backways,  frightened). —  Your  lordship  sent  word  to  me 
that  I  should  come  back  this  afternoon,  to  go  over  the  history  lesson. 

Count. —  Oh,  yes.  {PFith  sad  kindness.)  Pardon  me,  my  dear 
Coronado,  you,  the  most  gentle  and  inoffensive  of  all  created  beings.  {He 
sits  down.)  Come,  come  close  to  me.  My  mind  needs  comfort,  sym- 
pathy, cheer.  I  want  to  forget,  and  I  want  to  laugh.  Divert  my  mind, 
Coronado.  {He  sits  doivn  in  a  state  of  melancholy,  whose  inflections  and 
intensity  require  the  highest  artistic  expression  of  the  actor  who  interprets 
the  character  of  the  count.) 

Don  Pio. —  The  young  ladies  are  not  here  ? 

Count. —  Never  mind  them;  we  don't  need  the  young  ladies;  we  shall 
have  the  history  lesson  by  ourselves. 

Don  Pio. —  Ourselves  .'* 

Count. —  We  shall  study  actual  history.  It  laughs;  history  of  the  past 
nearly  always  weeps. 

Don  Pio. —  I  don't  understand. 

Count. —  Every  living  being  is  a  hero  of  future  volumes  of  history. 


218  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Don  Pio. —  Ah,  yes  sir.     We  are  all 


Count. —  Everlasting  heroes  of  history.  Cursed  be  those  who  conceal 
the  truth;  and  blessed  be  those  who,  like  you,  have  always  an  open  heart 
and  a  frank  soul. 

Don  Pio  (effusively). —  I  never  did  any  one  any  harm  that  I  know  of. 
My  role  in  this  world-comedy  is  to  suffer,    to  suffer  always. 

Count. —  They  tell  me  that  you  are  the  most  unhappy  being  that  God 
ever  put  into  this  world.     He  alone  knows  why. 

Don  Pio. —  Yes,  He  knows;  all  that  I  know  is  that  He  didn't  bring  me 
here  to  bring  forth  fruit. 

Count. —  Ah,  we  don't  know.  The  fruit  of  goodness  is  invisible  and 
ripens  when  least  we  think.  Poor  Coronado!  People  smile  when  they 
speak  of  your  goodness. 

Don  Pio. —  And  I,  too.  I'm  so  very  good  that  I  have  reached  the  point 
of  depreciating  myself  and  of  laughing  at  myself.  {They  look  at  each  other 
and  laugh.) 

Count. —  And  your  remark  has  become  a  proverb  in  Jerusa:  'How 
bad  a  thing  it  is  to  be  good.' 

Don  Pio. —  Yes,  I  originated  that  phrase;  I  say  it  a  hundred  times 
a  day. 

Count. —  Sit  down  beside  me.  (Don  Pio  brings  up  a  chair  and  sits 
down.)     Tell  me,  Pio,  your  wife  died,  at  last? 

Don  Pio  {touching  his  ruler). —  Yes,  at  last,  my  lord.  It's  two  years 
ago  since  the  devil  claimed  her,    called  her  to  him. 

Count. —  Poor  Coronado;  how  much  you  have  suffered.  I  tell  you 
there  is  nothing  more  demoralizing  in  society  to-day,  nothing  which  pro- 
duces worse  results  than  married  infidelity. 

Don  Pio. —  That  is  true,  your  lordship. 

Count. —  Behold  me,  then,  as  one  who  stands  in  the  world  ready  to 
struggle  with,  and  destroy,  if  possible,  the  usurping  claims  of  a  civil  law 
which  has  been  made  to  bring  discord  between  law  and  nature. 

Don  Pio  {wonderingly). —  Oh,  and  what  do  you  do  in  order  to 

Count. —  I  shall  soon  lay  bare  this  usurpation  and  hold  it  up  to  public 
shame;  does  this  seem  a  little  thing  to  you  .?  (Don  Pio,  more  wondering 
than  ever,  says  nothing.)  But  do  not  let  us  speak  now  of  my  grievances, 
but  of  yours.    Your  wife,  I  believe,  left  you  with  a  large  number  of  daughters. 

Don  Pio. —  Your  lordship  might  call  them  a  set  of  furies. 

Count. —  Permit  me  to  speak  to  you  with  a  frankness  which  is  as 
exaggerated  as  your  goodness.  Your  daughters  —  are  not  your  daugh- 
ters   


PEREZ  GALDOS  219 

Don  Pto  {looking  down). —  It  is  very  hard  for  me  to  confess  it.  But 
what  your  lordship  says  is  a  fact. 

Count. —  If  you  are  sure  of  that,  why  do  you  keep  them  with  you  .'' 

Don  Pio  {sighingy  looking  at  the  count). —  Because  of  the  law  of 
habit,  which  covers  up  the  mistakes  which  goodness  commits.  Since  they 
were  born  I  have  supported  them;  I  take  the  bread  from  my  own  mouth 
to  give  to  them.  I  have  seen  them  grow  up.  The  worst  of  it  is,  that  when 
they  were  little  they  were  fond  of  me,  and  I  — why  should  I  deny  it? —  I 
used  to  be  fond  of  them.  I  am  fond  of  them  yet.  I  can't  help  it.  {The 
count  smiles.)     I  haven't  much  sense  of  shame,  have  I  .'* 

Count. —  You  are  an  angel;  an  angel  of  —  of,  I  don't  know  what. 
What  you  tell  me  makes  me  curiously  happy.  Pardon  me,  my  friend,  if 
I  smile  even  while  I  sympathize  with  you. 

Don  Pio. —  Let  me  finish  telling  you  about  it,  so  that  you  may  despise 
me. 

Count. —  Go  on.  Misfortunes  of  this  sort  would  make  a  death's  head 
laugh. 

Don  Pio. —  My  wife,  who  is  enjoying  herself  with  Satan  at  present, 
domineered  over  me,  made  me  tremble  with  only  a  look.  I  might  have 
been  brave  before  a  dozen  tigers,  but  before  her  I  was  a  coward.  Her 
wickedness  was  as  great  as  my  patience.  She  brought  me  these  children. 
What  could  I  do  with  the  poor  creatures  ?  And  was  it  their  fault  .^  Tell 
me  .^  I  would  have  had  to  throw  them  out  into  the  street.  They  grew  up. 
They  were  attractive.     They  were  lovable. 

Count  {with  sad  gravity). —  That  is  enough.  Do  not  talk  any  more 
of  your  daughters.  How  tragedy  and  comedy  are  mingled  together!  They 
are  more  closely  connected  than  one  would  think.  Yes,  connected  as  are 
you  and  I. 

Don  Pio  {sighing). —  We  are  both  unhappy,  your  lordship;  but  what 
a  difference!  Your  granddaughters  adore  you  and  are  a  great  consolation 
to  you. 

Count  {nervously). —  Talk  to  me  about  them.  I  have  no  longer  any- 
thing else  in  the  world  but  one  thought;  and  that  thought  is  called  Nell 
and  Dolly. 

Don  Pio. —  Heaven  bless  them! 

Count. —  Do  you  love  them  too  .'^ 

Don  Pio. —  As  if  they  were  my  own;  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  say  that. 
I  do  not  deserve  that  honor;  I  love  them  because  they  are  my  pupils,  and 
I  can  see  their  innocent  souls  as  plainly  as  I  can  now  see  your  lordship's  face. 

Count  {with  interest). —  You,  who  know  them  so  well,  tell  me,  which 


220  THE  GRANDFATHER 

of  the  two  seems  to  you  to  be  noblest  ?  the  most  beautiful  from  a  moral 
point  of  view,    the  most  worthy  of  being  loved  ? 

Don  Pio  {thoughtfully). —  That  isn't  such  an  easy  thing  to  answer. 

Count. —  Imagine  for  a  moment  that  an  inevitable  law  obliged  you  to 
save  one  and  sacrifice  the  other.  (Don  Pig  seems  embarrassed  and  confused.) 
Remember  that  you  cannot  escape  this  terrible  dilemna,  either. 

Don  Pio  {scratching  his  head). —  Well,  that  is  a  problem.  You  mean 
that  I  would  have  to  chose  one  {deciding  after  long  hesitation).  Well,  with 
all  her  mischievousness,  with  all  her  restlessness,  I  think  I  would  chose 
Dolly. 

Count. —  And  on  what  do  you  base  your  preference  ? 

Don  Pio  {very  much  confused). —  I  don't  know.  There  is  something 
in  this  child  that  seems  to  me  superior  to  anything  that  we  ordinarily  find 
in  the  world.  I  am  very  much  mistaken,  your  lordship,  if  she  is  not  a  real 
child  of  the  angels. 

Count. —  There  is  no  doubt  about  it.  Your  judgment  is  based  upon 
observations 

Don  Pio  {with  angelic  innocence). —  Yes,  your  lordship.  That  is  it. 
When  all  the  family  were  here  two  years  ago  I  noticed  that  the  Count  of 
Lain  showed  the  same  preference. 

Count  {joyfully). —  Pio,  great  Pio!  Embrace  me.  {Embraces  him.) 
I  am  delighted  that  our  ideas  are  in  such  perfect  harmony ! 

Scene  XH 
(Count,  Don  Pio,  and  Dolly.     Later  Nell) 

Dolly  {hurrying  in  from  the  back). —  Grandfather,  here  come  the 
priest,  the  mayor,  and  a  lot  of  other  people. 

Count  {alarmed,  rising). —  What  are  you  looking  for?  What  do  you 
want  of  me  .^ 

Nell  {coming  in  right,  elegantly  dressed,  wearing  a  hat.  She  addresses 
the  count  in  a  ceremonious  tone). —  Count  Albrit,  what  is  the  matter.? 
What  has  happened  to  the  first  gentleman  of  Spain,  my  illustrious  grand- 
father .? 

Count  {surprised  at  the  language). —  My  little  girl,  I  don't  recognize  you. 
You  are  making  remarkable  progress  in  the  knowledge  of  the  world.  {The 
persons  indicated  appear  in  the  back.  They  group  themselves  at  a  distancey 
looking  suspiciously  at  the  count.     He  puts  his  arm  around  Dolly.) 

Don  Pio  {to  Dolly). —  And  is  Miss  Dolly  not  going  to  dress  up  .?  She 
too  would  be  very  pretty. 


PEREZ  GALDOS  221 

Nell  (to  the  Count). —  Tell  Dolly  to  go  and  dress  herself.  I  don't 
like  to  go  alone. 

Count  {anxiously  noticing  that  people  have  come  in). —  Who  are  these  ? 
What  are  they  looking  for  ^ 

Scene  XIII 

(T'Af Count, Nell,  Dolly.   y//joM^  Priest, /A^- Doctor,  Mayor, Venancio, 
Gregoria,    and    Don    Pio,    who  remains  at  one  side) 

Mayor  {coming  forward). —  Your  lordship,  my  only  object  in  coming 
to  the  Pardina  is  to  get  the  young  ladies,  whom  I  have  had  the  honor  of 
inviting  to  my  party  this  evening.  I  take  advantage  of  this  occasion  to  say 
to  your  lordship  that  in  assigning  you  to  the  monastery  of  Zaratay  as  a  future 
home,  we  have  thought  and  still  believe  that  we  are  lodging  you  most 
worthily. 

Count  {serenely). —  It  wasn't  your  idea  to  shut  me  up  there.  {To  the 
Priest.)     Nor  yours  either,  Carmelo. 

Priest  {hesitating). —  The  idea  wasn't  mine;    I  cannot  take  that  credit. 

Mayor. —  Nor  mine  either;  but  I  spoke  to  the  prior.  We  agreed  as 
to  the  arrangements  for  your  lordship's  accommodation  there.  I  also 
arranged  for  the  carriage,  etc. 

Count. —  There  is  one  thing  I  would  like  to  know.  Are  you  thinking 
of  taking  me  there  by  force  ? 

Doctor. —  Oh,  that!   never! 

.^//.— No!    No! 

Priest  {conciliatingly;  approaching). —  I  beg  your  lordship  to  be 
reasonable,  and  to  take  into  account  the  advantages  which  we  offer. 

Doctor. —  You  will  surely  decide 

Count. —  I  have  decided  —  that  you  will  never  take  me  there  alive. 
Nor  dead,  either;  because  in  my  will  I  have  provided  that  I  shall  be  buried 
in  Polan. 

Mayor. —  My  lord,  won't  you  submit  to  the  disposition  that  your 
friends  wish  to  make  of  you  1 

Count  {contemptuously). —  And  you,  who  are  you  } 

Mayor  {showing  his  stick  of  office). —  I  am  a  man  who  knows  what  is 
due  him. 

Count. —  Ah,  now  I  know  who  you  are.  {Indicating  the  Priest  and 
the  Doctor.)  And  those  too.  I  don't  have  to  sec  you,  Carmelo,  nor  you, 
Angulo;    the  breath  of  ingratitude  blows  in  my  face. 


220  THE  GRANDFATHER 

of  the  two  seems  to  you  to  be  noblest  ?  the  most  beautiful  from  a  moral 
point  of  view,    the  most  worthy  of  being  loved  ? 

Don  Pio  {thoughtfully). —  That  isn't  such  an  easy  thing  to  answer. 

Count. —  Imagine  for  a  moment  that  an  inevitable  law  obliged  you  to 
save  one  and  sacrifice  the  other.  (Don  Pio  seems  embarrassed  and  confused.) 
Remember  that  you  cannot  escape  this  terrible  dilemna,  either. 

Don  Pio  {scratching  his  head). —  Well,  that  is  a  problem.  You  mean 
that  I  would  have  to  chose  one  {deciding  after  long  hesitation).  Well,  with 
all  her  mischievousness,  with  all  her  restlessness,  I  think  I  would  chose 
Dolly. 

Count. —  And  on  what  do  you  base  your  preference  ? 

Don  Pio  {very  much  confused). —  I  don't  know.  There  is  something 
in  this  child  that  seems  to  me  superior  to  anything  that  we  ordinarily  find 
in  the  world.  I  am  very  much  mistaken,  your  lordship,  if  she  is  not  a  real 
child  of  the  angels. 

Count. —  There  is  no  doubt  about  it.  Your  judgment  is  based  upon 
observations 

Don  Pio  {with  angelic  innocence). —  Yes,  your  lordship.  That  is  it. 
When  all  the  family  were  here  two  years  ago  I  noticed  that  the  Count  of 
Lain  showed  the  same  preference. 

Count  {joyfully). —  Pio,  great  Pio!  Embrace  me.  {Embraces  him.) 
I  am  delighted  that  our  ideas  are  in  such  perfect  harmony! 

Scene  XH 
(Count,  Don  Pio,  and  Dolly.     Later  Nell) 

Dolly  {hurrying  in  from  the  back). —  Grandfather,  here  come  the 
priest,  the  mayor,  and  a  lot  of  other  people. 

Count  {alarmed,  rising). —  What  are  you  looking  for.?  What  do  you 
want  of  me  ? 

Nell  {coming  in  right,  elegantly  dressed,  wearing  a  hat.  She  addresses 
the  count  in  a  ceremonious  tone). —  Count  Albrit,  what  is  the  matter.? 
What  has  happened  to  the  first  gentleman  of  Spain,  my  illustrious  grand- 
father ? 

Count  {surprised  at  the  language). —  My  little  girl,  I  don't  recognize  you. 
You  are  making  remarkable  progress  in  the  knowledge  of  the  world.  {The 
persons  indicated  appear  in  the  back.  They  group  themselves  at  a  distance^ 
looking  suspiciously  at  the  count.     He  puts  his  arm  around  Dolly.) 

Don  Pio  {to  Dolly). —  And  is  Miss  Dolly  not  going  to  dress  up  ?  She 
too  would  be  very  pretty. 


PEREZ  GALDOS  221 

Nell  {to  the  Count). —  Tell  Dolly  to  go  and  dress  herself.  I  don't 
like  to  go  alone. 

Count  {anxiously  noticing  that  people  have  come  in). —  Who  are  these  ? 
What  are  they  looking  for .'' 

Scene  XIII 

{The  Count,  Nell,  Dolly.   Also  the  Priest,  jfA^  Doctor,  Mayor,  Venancio, 
Gregoria,    and    Don    Pio,    who  remains  at  one  side) 

Mayor  {coming  forward). —  Your  lordship,  my  only  object  in  coming 
to  the  Pardina  is  to  get  the  young  ladies,  whom  I  have  had  the  honor  of 
inviting  to  my  party  this  evening.  I  take  advantage  of  this  occasion  to  say 
to  your  lordship  that  in  assigning  you  to  the  monastery  of  Zaratay  as  a  future 
home,  we  have  thought  and  still  believe  that  we  are  lodging  you  most 
w^orthily. 

Count  {serenely). —  It  wasn't  your  idea  to  shut  me  up  there.  {To  the 
Priest.)     Nor  yours  either,  Carmelo. 

Priest  {hesitating). —  The  idea  wasn't  mine;    I  cannot  take  that  credit. 

Mayor. —  Nor  mine  either;  but  I  spoke  to  the  prior.  We  agreed  as 
to  the  arrangements  for  your  lordship's  accommodation  there.  I  also 
arranged  for  the  carriage,  etc. 

Count. —  There  is  one  thing  I  would  like  to  know.  Are  you  thinking 
of  taking  me  there  by  force  ^ 

Doctor. —  Oh,  that!    never! 

.^//.— No!    No! 

Priest  {conciliatingly;  approaching). —  I  beg  your  lordship  to  be 
reasonable,  and  to  take  into  account  the  advantages  which  we  offer. 

Doctor. —  You  will  surely  decide 

Count. —  I  have  decided  —  that  you  will  never  take  me  there  alive. 
Nor  dead,  either;  because  in  my  will  I  have  provided  that  I  shall  be  buried 
in  Polan. 

Mayor. —  My  lord,  won't  you  submit  to  the  disposition  that  your 
friends  wish  to  make  of  you  } 

Count  {contemptuously). —  And  you,  who  are  you  } 

Mayor  {showing  his  stick  of  office). —  I  am  a  man  who  knows  what  is 
due  him. 

Count. —  Ah,  now  I  know  who  you  are.  {Indicating  the  Priest  and 
the  Doctor.)  And  those  too.  I  don't  have  to  see  you,  Carmelo,  nor  you, 
Angulo;    the  breath  of  ingratitude  blows  in  my  face. 


222  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Mayor  {impatient,  taking  Dolly  by  the  arm). —  Miss  Dolly,  will  you 
try  to  make  your  grandfather  understand  that  I  am  the  Mayor  of  Jerusa  ? 

Dolly  {she  moves  away  from  the  count,  and  bursts  out  angrily). —  Let 
me  say  to  the  Mayor  of  jerusa,  and  to  the  priest  of  Jerusa,  and  to  all  the 
mayors  and  to  all  the  priests  that  have  ever  been  or  shall  be  in  the  world, 
that  what  you  are  thinking  of  doing  to  my  grandfather  is  a  crime ! 

Nell. —  Yes,  Dolly,  you're  right. 

Priest.—  But,  Miss  Dolly. 

Dolly. —  You  have  lacked  in  the  respect  which  this  noble  old  man 
deserves.  He  is  the  father  of  this  town;  why  do  you  want  to  deprive  him 
of  freedom  ?  The  only  madness  that  he  has  is  his  love  for  us,  and  if  those 
who  have  grown  up  under  his  shadow  despise  and  insult  him,  we,  his  grand- 
daughters, are  here  to  teach  them  the  veneration  which  is  due  him. 

Count  {who  had  risen  when  he  heard  DoLLY.  Lifts  his  hands  to  hea- 
ven).—  Oh,  God,  she  is  the  one!  {He  turns  to  Don  Pio,  who  is  standing 
behind  his  chair.)     She  is  the  one!     Her  pride  has  revealed  her. 

Priest  {appearing  to  make  a  concession). —  Well,  since  he  does  not  accept 
just  now  the  honorable  and  peaceful  retreat  which  is  offered  him,  we  will 
take  him  to  my  house. 

Mayor. —  Or  to  mine. 

Dolly. —  To  his  house! 

Priest. —  I  say  this  because  in  the  last  few  days  there  has  been  a  certain 
incompatibility  between  the  count  and  Venancio. 

Nell. —  Incompatibility!    We  are  in  our  own  house. 

Venancio  {coming  forward,  followed  by  Gregoria). —  I  hope  Miss 
Nelly  will  forgive  me.  The  young  ladies,  as  well  as  the  count,  are  in  my 
house. 

Nell  {intimidated). —  That's  true,  but 

Dolly. —  What  do  you  say  ? 

Venancio. —  I  say  that  —  we  shall  be  very  glad  to  lodge  and  serve 
you  for  to-night. 

Dolly  {undaunted). —  What  is  that  you  say?  For  to-night?  You  will 
do  it  to-night  and  every  night,  as  long  as  Nell  and  I  are  here.  To  be  sure 
the  house  is  yours;    but  we  are  your  mistresses;    my  sister  and  I 

Nell. —  Yes,  we  are  your  mistresses. 

Dolly. —  Do  you  hear  ?  With  the  exception  of  this  orchard,  the  lands 
which  you  cultivate,  and  which  you  hold  as  a  tenant,  or  as  a  steward,  are 
ours ;  ours,  I  say;  we  are  the  heirs  of  the  House  of  Lain,  and  you,  Venancio, 
and  you,  Gregoria,  you  serve  my  grandfather,  not  out  of  charity,  for  we 
have  seen  what  kind  of  charity  you  have  shown,  but  because  I  tell  you  to. 


PEREZ  GALDOS  223 

You  understand!      Because  I  tell  you  to!    {She  repeats  this  last  with  au- 
thority).     The  one  who  gives  orders  here  is 

Gregoria. —  Is  the  countess. 

Dolly  {proudly). —  Silence!  Go  and  get  dinner  ready!  {To  Gregoria.) 
Go  to  the  kitchen  immediately.  I'he  Count  of  Albrit  is  living  with  his 
granddaughters.  We  are  not  beggars.  He  will  eat  with  us  here.  {She 
strikes  the  table.)  At  this  table!  He  shall  sleep  in  the  room  which  I  have 
arranged  for  him  myself.  And  if  you  don't  want  to  go  to  the  kitchen,  I 
will  go  myself.  And  if  you  have  dismantled  his  room,  Nell  will  arrange  it 
again.  Quick!  Go  about  your  business.  {To  Venancio  and  Gregoria.) 
Set  the  table!    Gentlemen,  you  are  invited  to  dine  with  us. 

Mayor  {grudgingly). —  Thanks 

Priest. —  That's  a  granddaughter  for  you. 

Dolly. —  I  am  the  child  of  my  grandfather. 

Count  {with  deep  tenderness,  embracing  her). —  Yes,  yes,  you  are  of 
my  blood;   you  have  the  courage  of  Albrit. 

ACT  V 

{A  little  square  of  the  church  at  Jerusa,  Romanesque  style.  In  the  back, 
the  door  of  the  church.  At  the  right,  in  an  angle  of  the  church,  a  small  door 
which  leads  to  the  sacristy.  On  the  left,  entrance  to  two  streets.  On  the 
right,  an  open  field.  In  the  center,  a  stone  cross  with  a  seat  at  its  base.  Street 
lanterns.     It  is  night.     Moonlight) 

Scene  I 
(Senen  coming  from  the  street;   Venancio  coming  out  of  the  church) 

Venancio. —  Have  you  found  him  ^ 

Senen. —  No,  I  have  been  in  every  street  of  the  town;  in  all  the  alleys, 
and  in  every  corner,  and  I  have  not  had  the  honor  of  meeting  the  count. 

Venancio. —  And  I  am  sure  that  he  is  in  none  of  the  churches,  hermi- 
tages, nor  sanctuaries  of  Jerusa. 

Senen. —  When  did  you  lose  sight  of  him  ? 

Venancio. —  It  was  eight  o'clock  when  he  left  the  house.  He  was  so 
irritated  and  angry  that  v/e  feared 

Senen. —  That  he  might  attempt  to  take  his  life  ?  Don't  believe  it. 
The  poor  old  man  is  looking  for  a  truth,  and  he's  got  to  live  just  as  you  and 
I,  until  he  finds  it. 


224  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Venancio. —  And  that  truth,  Senen  ? 

Senen  {maliciously,  showing  his  closed  fist). —  There  are  some  people 

who  have  caught  that  truth;    and  by  simply  opening  the  hand {He 

opens  his  hand.) 

Fenancio. —  You  great  rascal;  you  know,  and  you  won't  tell.  Let's 
sit  down  here.     Tell  it  all  to  your  friend  Venancio. 

Senen. —  The  hour  has  come  when  each  one  must  look  out  for  him- 
self. 

Venancio. —  Let's  talk  about  the  distinguished  virago,  the  Countess 
of  Lain,  who  is  there  in  the  church  with  her  daughter  Nell,  having  a  good 
time  with  the  saints. 

Senen. —  The  Pescara  tragedy  has  evidently  turned  into  a  saintly 
comedy. 

Venancio. —  Do  you  know  what  this  sort  of  person  does  in  the  con- 
fessional t  She  empties  her  conscience  of  old  sins  in  order  to  have  a  place 
for  the  new  ones. 

Senen  {indignant,  shaking  his  fist  at  the  church). —  Oh,  you  serpent, 
you  infernal  dragon ! 

Venancio. —  Tell  me,  my  boy,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  that  wild  cat 
has  withdrawn  her  protection  from  you  .? 

Senen  {returning  to  the  bench  to  sit  down). —  After  she  had  confessed 
the  other  day,  I  succeeded  in  making  her  receive  me.  Well,  I  went  up  to 
her  room,  and  scarcely  had  I  told  her  what  I  wanted,  when  she  broke  out 
in  a  tirade  against  my  humble  person.  Think  of  her  treating  me  in  that 
way!  I  who  kept  her  secrets  and  guarded  her  honor  as  I  would  my  own. 
I  am  done  with  you.  Countess  Lain.     You  will  pay  for  it.     See  if  you  don't. 

Venancio. —  She's  a  hard  one.  And  now  I'll  tell  you,  so  that  you  may 
know  how  to  act.  This  morning  as  soon  as  she  got  out  of  the  carriage,  the 
countess  told  us  that  we  must  take  her  daughters  to  her.  Dolly  would  not 
go.  Then,  a  short  time  afterwards,  the  mayor  arrived  with  two  policemen 
and  took  the  girl,  although  they  almost  had  to  tie  her.  What  a  scene  there 
was!  The  child,  who  is  very  quick  tempered,  screamed  like  a  good  one. 
The  count  heard  her  from  his  room,  but  they  took  her  away  in  such  a  hurry, 
that  he  only  had  time  to  roar  in  vain,  calling  upon  heaven  and  hell. 

Senen. —  Unhappy  old  man!  I  tell  you,  that  from  now  on  I  am  on  his 
side.      (Don  Pio  comes  in  left,  and  goes  towards  the  church.) 

Venancio. — ^There  comes  Coronado.  {Calling  him.)  DonPio!  Here 
we  are!  {To  Senen.)  Let's  see  if  he  has  been  more  fortunate  than  we 
have. 


PEREZ  GALD6S  225 

Scene  II 
(Venancio,  Senen,  and  Don  Pio) 

Senen. —  Did  you  find  him  ? 

Don  Pio. —  Yes. 

Venancio. —  Where  ? 

Don  Pio. —  In  the  Paramo,  wandering  Hke  a  lost  soul. 

Senhi. —  He  is  mad. 

Don  Pio. —  I  should  rather  say  maddened  because  they  took  Miss 
Dolly  from  him  by  force.  We  came  back  together  to  the  town.  His  lord- 
ship went  into  the  mayor's  house  to  have  a  conference  with  the  countess 
and  to  propose  to  her 

The  Tivo  (quickly,  with  curiosity). —  Propose  what  ? 

Don  Pio. —  Since  the  grandfather  and  the  mother  are  quarreling  over 
this  charming  pair  of  girls  the  count  holds,  as  did  Solomon,  that  the  object 
in  dispute  should  be  divided,  a  child  to  each  one.  And  why  not  ?  A  good 
idea! 

Venancio. —  Hm!  Hm!  When  he  gets  to  the  mayor's  he  will  find 
that  the  countess  is  at  her  devotions.  If  I'm  not  mistaken  the  old  lion  will 
soon  be  here.  {Looking  down  the  street.)  He  has  had  time  already  to  go 
and  come, 

Senen. —  I  will  wait  for  him  here. 

Venancio. —  I  will  go  in  to  warn  the  countess,  so  that  she  may  be  pre- 
pared for  this  new  notion  of  the  old  man.  {Sound  of  the  organ.  A  number 
of  people  come  out  of  the  church  into  the  street;  Venancio  enters  the  church 
by  the  door  which  leads  to  the  sacristy.) 

Don  Pio. —  The  sermon  is  over. 

Scene  III 
(Senen,  Don  Pio,  and  the  Count) 

Senen  {to  Don  Pio,  who  looks  towards  the  left). —  Is  that  a  man  coming  .'' 

Don  Pio. —  I  don't  see  him. 

Senen. —  Don't  you  see  in  the  darkness  of  the  street  the  sad,  majestic 
form  of  the  great  Albrit  ^ 

Don  Pio  {looking). —  It  seems  to  me;  no,  it  isn't.  {Suddenly.)  Yes, 
there  he  comes;   look  at  him! 

Senen. —  It's  the  count.     {The  count  appears  left;  both  go  to  meet  him.) 


226  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Count. —  Who  is  here  ? 
Don  Pio. —  Your  lordship 


Count  (recognizing  him  by  his  voice.) —  Ha,  Coronado,  my  good 
friend.     And  who  are  you  ? 

Senen. —  Another  friend  of  your  lordship;    and  the  best,  perhaps. 

Count. —  Ah,  I  recognize  you  both  by  the  sense  of  smell  and  of  hearing, 
you' perfumed  reptile.      Vade  retro.     Get  thee  behind  me! 

Senen. —  Your  lordship  is  very  unjust. 
f        Count. —  Are  you  sure  that  your  mistress  is  in  the  church  .? 

Senen. —  She  is  in  the  presbytery,  sitting  in  your  lordship's  pew. 

Count. —  I  wish  to  speak  to  her  a  moment.     Where  did  she  go  in  } 
I         Senen. —  It  would  be  much  more  worth  the  while  of  your  lordship  to 
talklwith  me. 

"Count. —  With  you  ?    What  have  you  to  say  to  me  } 

Senen. —  In  the  first  place,  that  that  woman,  whom  the  devil  has  aban- 
doned, is  this  very  minute  playing  the  comedy  of  repentance  before  God. 

Count  {to  Don  Pio). —  Is  this  true  } 

Don  Pio. —  I  don't  know,  your  lordship. 

Count. —  Lucretia  repentant.?  I  must  see  it.  And  if  what  you  say 
is  true,  I  do  not  doubt  that  she  will  accept  my  proposition.  {Anxiously.) 
Coronado,  my  friend 

Don  Pio. —  I  am  here,  your  lordship. 

Count. —  I  beg  you  to  go  to  the  mayor's  house.  Enter  under  any  pre- 
text whatever,  and  find  Dolly.     Talk  with  her 

Don  Pio. —  I  shall  go,  your  lordship. 

Count. —  And  tell  her  that  I  am  not  losing  courage;  that  she  must  be 
mine.  I  have  sworn  it  by  my  noble  name.  {Exit  Don  Pio.)  The  count 
walks  up  and  down  in  agitation.) 

Scene  IV 
(Count  and  Senen) 

Count. —  Whether  she  confesses  or  not,  I  do  not  beheve  that  God  will 
pardon  her. 

Senen. —  Neither  God  nor  man  will  pardon  her. 

Count. —  Leave  me;    I  despise  you. 

Senen. —  Just  one  word,  your  lordship,  and  when  I  have  said  it,  the 
truth  which  you  seek  will  have  passed  from  my  hands  to  your  lordship's, 
from  my  keeping  to  yours. 


PEREZ  GALDOS  227 

Count  {with  deep  interest;  going  up  to  him  and  taking  him  by  the  lapel.)  — 
Speak!  Speak!  If  you  are  the  mire  into  which  has  fallen  a  precious  stone, 
deliver  it  now!    Give  up  your  treasure. 

Senen. —  I  have  always  been  a  discreet  and  loyal  man. 

Count. —  And  now  you  have  ceased  to  be.  Give  me  this  truth.  Give 
it  to  me!  Even  though  it  be  stained  in  passing  your  lips.  Are  you  the  only 
one  who  possesses  it  .'* 

Senen. —  The  only  one. 

Count  {shaking  him  luith  energy). —  But  if  you  deceive  me,  then  prepare 
to  die  at  my  hands! 

Senen. —  Your  lordship  shall  have  the  truth,  and  with  proofs. 

Count. —  Be  quick! 

Senen. —  With  proofs,  I  said,  your  lordship.  {He  puts  his  hand  to  his 
breast  pocket.)  I  think  I  am  doing  your  lordship  a  great  service  in  disabusing 
you  of  a  grave  error.  {Count  fixes  his  eyes  upon  him.)  The  false  child, 
the  spurious  one,  is  Dolly. 

Count  {in  fear). —  No!  you  lie!  {Suddenly  possessed  of  tragic  fury.) 
Vile  hireling,  you  lie!  And  I  shall  throttle  you.  {He  throws  himself  upon 
him,  catching  him  by  the  throat.)  I'll  choke  you,  you  ruffian.  {There's  a 
struggle;  the  count,  although  older,  is  much  stronger  than  Senen;  he  throws 
him  violently  on  the  stone  bench  by  the  Cross.)  Villain,  viper;  I'll  choke  the 
very  life  out  of  you. 

Senen  {struggling  to  his  feet). —  This  is  madness.  Is  this  the  way  you 
pay  my  services  ?     I  tell  you  I  have  proofs. 

Count. —  Forger!    Traitor!    Dolly  is  of  my  blood. 

Senen  {trembling,  hair  and  face  discomposed.  He  looks  in  his  pockets.) — 
Here  is  the  truth;  as  true  as  there  is  a  God.  {He  takes  out  a  little  package 
of  papers.) 

Count. —  Give  them  to  me.  {He  seizes  the  package,  undoes  it,  then 
he  feels  repugnance  and  horror.  He  gives  back  the  package  to  Senen.) 
No!  No!  Take  your  infamous  papers.  Keep  your  secrets  in  your  unclean 
breast. 

Senen. —  Keep  them,  your  lordship.  The  proofs  belong  to  you,  as  does 
also  the  truth  which  I  have  just  revealed  to  you.  (Nell  comes  out  from  the 
Sacristy,  accompanied  by  other  girls;  they  all  wear  white  mantles.)  Your 
lordship,  here  is  Nell.     {He  withdraws  from  the  count.) 


228  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Scene  V 

(Count,  Nell,  Senen  a  little  to  the  left) 

Nell. —  Grandfather,  dear,  why  don't  you  come  in  ?  Your  chair  was 
up  in  front,  close  by  the  altar. 

Count  (looking  at  her  closely). —  Nell,  how  beautiful  you  are  in  your 
white  mantle. 

Nell. —  This  used  to  be  grandmother's,  the  Countess  Adelaide. 

Count  (kissing  the  fringe  of  the  mantle  with  reverence,  and  looking  still 
more  closely  at  Nell). —  I  can  see  your  face,  and  it  looks  as  if  an  aureole 
of  nobility  and  majesty  encircled  it. 

Nell  (surprised  at  the  old  mans  emotion). —  Grandfather,  why  do  you 
look  at  me  that  way;   why  are  your  hands  trembling  .^     Are  you  crying  .f* 

Count  (into  his  soul,  deeply  moved,  there  enters  a  sudden  wave  of  con- 
viction that  he  has  before  him  the  legitimate  heiress  of  Lain  and  Albrit) . —  Dear 
child  of  my  house,  may  God  bless  you! 

Nell  (troubled.  She  attributes  the  old  mans  words  to  his  troubled  mind). — 
Dear  grandfather,  go  back  to  the  Pardina.  To-morrow,  before  my  sister  and 
I  go  away,  we'll  go  to  see  you. 

Count  (deeply  moved). —  Do  not  go,  for  you  will  not  find  me. 

Nell. —  What's  the  matter  ?     Are  you  going  to  run  away  from  us  ? 

Count. —  Inheritor  of  Albrit,  and  future  Marchioness  of  Breda,  you 
may  go  upon  your  light-encircled  road,  but  leave  me  to  my  dark  way. 

Nell  (much  troubled). —  But  grandfather,  why  are  you  so  sad  ?  We  are 
just  as  fond  of  you  as  ever.  I  assure  you  that  we  shall  come  to  see  you; 
and  we  shall  be  very  angry  with  mamma  if  she  does  not  take  us. 

Count. —  She  will  not  take  you. 

Nell. —  And  why  not } 

Count. —  What  am  I  .?  A  poor  wretch.  The  old  trunk  dies,  but  you 
remain;    a  new  upspringing  tree  who  will  perpetuate  my  name  and  my  race. 

Nell  (with  tenderness). —  But,  dear  grandfather,  if  you  love  me  so 
much,  why  don't  you  do  what  I  tell  you  .''  What  I  advise  you  .?  Please, 
won't  you  go  to  the  asylum  at  Zaratay  ? 

Count  (hurt  to  the  quick). —  Farewell,  Nell.     Go  to  your  mother. 

Nell. —  You  will  be  very  comfortable  at  Zaratay.  We  shall  go  to  see 
you. 

Count  (profoundly  discouraged). —  Good  by,  Nell. 

Nell. —  Dear  grandfather.     (She  kisses  his  hands.) 

Count. —  Farewell.  (He  withdraws  resolutely  from  her.  Nell  with 
the  other  girls  goes  out  by  the  street.) 


PEREZ  GALDOS  229 

Scene  VI 

{The  same.  Later  Venancio  comes  out  of  the  churchy  followed  by  Lu- 
CRETIA  dressed  in  black) 

Count  {in  deep  distress). —  She  does  not  wish  to  live  in  my  company. 
Like  her  mother  and  my  disloyal  friends,  she  wants  to  shut  me  up.  She 
cannot  be  the  lawful  one.     Every  one  deceives  me. 

Senen. —  Except  myself. 

Venancio. —  Your  lordship,  the  countess 

Count  {going  to  meet  the  countess). —  Pardon  me,  Lucretia,  for  having 
delayed  you. 

Lucretia. —  Your  lordship 

Count. —  I  am  speaking  to  one  who  has  tried  {correcting  himself),  who 
has  succeeded  in  finding  peace  by  repentance. 

Lucretia. —  I  hope  to  prove  to  the  world  that  my  good  intentions  are 
sincere. 

Count. —  Then  if  truth  has  penetrated  your  soul,  do  not  refuse  me  that 
which  I  ask.  Do  not  refuse  me,  for  the  sake  of  all  you  care  for  most  in  the 
world.  By  telling  me  the  truth  you  will  give  me  peace.  You  will  give  me 
back  the  reason  which  I  have  lost. 

Lucretia. —  This  terrible  problem  is  to  face  me  again! 

Count. —  It  will  always  face  you  as  long  as  I  live.  Be  courageous, 
Lucretia.     Be  sincere. 

Lucretia. —  I  am  sincere  in  my  soul,  but  I  have  not  yet  the  strength  to 
be  sincere  in  my  words. 

Count. —  This  is  mere  prudery.     Do  you  insist  on  keeping  silent  ? 

Lucretia. —  No. 

Count. —  Then  tell  me  the  truth. 

Lucretia  {deeply  moved). —  I  have  just  authorized  my  confessor  to 
reveal  to  the  father  of  my  husband  the  truth  that  he  seeks. 

Count. —  I  thank  you.  {He  kisses  her  hand  gratefully.  She  goes 
out  right.  The  count  remains  for  a  moment  stunned.  As  soon  as  he  sees 
Lucretia  disappear,  he  exclaims  anxiously.)     Where  is  this  confessor.'' 

Venancio. —  Here  he  is.  {He  indicates  the  door  which  leads  to  the 
sacristy.)     The  holy  father 

Count. —  At  last  I  shall  know  the  truth.  {He  goes  hastily  to  the  churchy 
and  enters  the  sacristy.) 


230  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Scene  VH 
(Venancio,  Senen,  and  later  Don  Pio) 

Venancio. —  This  last  blow  will  overthrow  his  reason  entirely. 

Senen. —  A  little  more  deception  and  his  strength  will  be  exhausted. 
Then  his  good  friends  can  do  with  him  as  they  please. 

Venancio. —  Let's  go  and  tell  them;  so  that  together  they  can  decide 
upon  the  best  way  to  capture  him  to-night,  without  noise  or  scandal. 

Senen. —  And  then  they  can  take  him  before  dawn  to  the  monastery. 

Don  Pio  {coming  in  hastily  from  left). —  Where  is  the  count  ? 

Venancio. —  Wait  for  him  here.  I  haven't  a  doubt  but  that  we  will 
^ee  him  come  out  without  a  shred  of  sense  left.  Watch  him  and  notice  the 
^ad  that  the  poor  wounded  lion  takes,  and  tell  us. 

Don  Pio. —  Where  will  you  be  ? 

Venancio. —  At  the  mayor's  house.     Be  very  careful. 

(Venancio  and  Senen  exit.) 

Don  Pio. —  God  be  with  you.  {Alone  he  is  confused.)  What  were 
they  saying  about  the  wounded  lion  ?  That  I  should  watch  him  ?  That 
I  should  follow  his  steps  ?  I'll  wait;  I  don't  quite  understand.  Here  t 
In  the  sacristy.  {Looking  into  the  church  by  the  sacristy  door.)  Heavens  ^ 
(fVith  fear.)     Here  he  comes. 

Scene  VIII 

(Don  Pio,  the  Count,  who  comes  out  of  the  sacristy  tremblings  very  much 

moved) 

Count. —  Has  heaven  no  pity  upon  me  ?  Nell  is  the  true  one.  The 
false  one  is  Dolly,  the  one  who  loves  me.  Oh,  worldly  vanities  and  great- 
ness; with  what  irony  you  look  upon  me!  {Suddenly  noticing  Don  Pio, 
but  he  does  not  rocognize  him).     Who's  there  ^ 

Don  Pio. —  Your  lordship. 

Count  {not  recognizing  him). —  Oh,  Senen! 

Don  Pio. —  I  am  not  Senen. 

Count  {still  confused). —  Do  not  touch  me,  you  reptile.  The  touch  of 
you  chills  one.  Keep  your  secrets;  deceive  me,  but  let  me  live;  give  me 
back  my  doubts!  I  do  not  doubt;  but  if  I  do  not  I  cannot  live.  I  am  no 
longer  the  Count  of  Albrit;   I  am  but  his  shadow. 

Don  Pio. —  Your  lordship,  I  don't  understand  what  you  are  saying; 
don't  you  recognize  me  ^     I  am  Coronado. 

Count  {remembering). —  Coronado? 


PEREZ  GALDOS  231 

Don  P'lo. —  I  went  to  the  mayor's  house,  as  your  lordship  told  me.  I 
succeeded  in  seeing  the  girl;    I  said  to  her 

Count  {exerting  himself). —  Do  not  speak  of  the  daughters  of  Albrit. 
They  are  hateful  to  me  now;  the  lawful  one  does  not  love  me.  She  tells 
me  to  go  to  the  asylum.  Dolly,  who  loves  me,  is  not  my  granddaughter. 
Tell  me,  where  I  can  find  some  bottomless  pit  where  I  can  hide  myself  and 
there  make  my  last  resting  place! 

Don  Pio  {with  affectionate  compassion). —  Albrit!  Your  lordship,  my 
dear  friend,  do  not  think  of  such  things.  If  your  lordship  thinks  there  is 
no  one  in  the  world  who  loves  you,  I  shall  love  you.  {He  embraces  him 
with  deep  emotion.) 

Count  {sharing  Don  Pio's  emotion). —  Ah,  now  I  know  you,  noble 
Coronado,  friend  of  my  soul.  {He  embraces  him.)  Great  philosopher, 
give  me  your  hand.     I  can  scarcely  walk,  my  poor  bones  feel  like  lead. 

Don  Pio  {sustaining  him). —  Will  not  your  lordship  rest  .f*  Let  us  sit 
down  here.  {He  leads  him  to  the  stone  bench  at  the  foot  of  the  cross.  They 
both  sit  down.) 

Count. —  I  am  in  bitter  trouble.  I  have  no  longer  any  grandchildren; 
I  have  no  longer  any  one  to  love  me. 

Don  Pio. —  Love  humanity,  your  lordship.  Be  like  God,  who  loves  all 
equally. 

Count. —  And  for  that  reason  He  is  great.  He  creates;  He  loves;  He 
does  not  distinguish  powers  nor  kingdoms.  But  I  would  have  you  tell  me, 
great  philosopher,  what  do  you  think  of  honor  ? 

Don  Pio  {very  much  confused). —  Honor  ?  Well,  honor  —  I  should  say 
that  honor  was  something  like — well,  something  like  decorations.  They 
speak  sometimes  of  funeral  honors,  too;  of  national  honors;  of  the  field  of 
honor  —  but,  after  all,  your  lordship,  I  don't  know  what  it  is. 

Count. —  I  mean  family  honor,  purity  of  race,  pride  of  name;  it  has 
seemed  to  me  to-night,  and  now  I  say  it  frankly  to  you,  that  if  honor  could 
be  changed  into  something  material,  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  with 
which  to  fertilize  the  land. 

Don  Pio  {trying  to  sharpen  his  wits). —  Then  if  honor  is  not  virtue, 
love  of  one's  neighbor,  wishing  no  evil,  not  even  to  our  enemies,  I  swear 
by  the  beard  of  Jupiter,  that  I  don't  know  what  it  is. 

Count. —  It  seems  to  me,  my  good  Coronado,  that  you  are  discovering 
a  world, — a  world  still  far  away,  which  you  see  through  the  mist. 

Don  Pio  {anxiously). —  What  I  do  see,  your  lordship,  is  that  you  are 
not  in  a  safe  place  here.     {He  looks  about  him.) 

Count. —  Why  ? 


232  THE  GRANDFATHER 

Don  Pio  {mysteriously). —  They  are  trying  to  seize  your  lordship. 

Count. —  I  assure  you  that  they  will  never  seize  me  alive. 

Don  Pio. —  If  your  lordship  wishes  freedom,  then  leave  Jerusa.  Let 
us  flee;   for  I,  too,  want  to  escape. 

Count. —  We  shall  go;  but  let  us  be  calm.  I  have  friends  in  every 
town  in  the  land,  old  tenants  of  Albrit  who  would  be  glad  to  welcome  me. 

Don  Pio. —  Then  let  us  go,  your  lordship.  (Impatiently.))  Let  us 
go  very  far  away.  I  fear  lest  they  come.  {He  rises  and  looks  down  the 
street.) 

Count. —  I  fear  nothing.     But  is  any  one  coming  ? 

Don  Pio. —  I  cannot  see.  Oh,  yes!  there's  something  coming  in  the 
distance. 

Count. —  Some  vagabond,  {There  is  a  pause  tn  the  solemn  silence  of 
the  night  and  the  far-away  voice  of  Dolly  is  heard  crying,  "  Grandfather!  ") 

Don  Pio  {listening). —  Dolly's  voice! 

Scene  IX 
{The  Count,  Don  Pio,  and  Dolly) 

Count. —  Dolly's  voice!  It  cannot  be;  it  is  muffled  by  the  wind;  oh, 
my  God,  how  strange!    (Dolly's  cry  is  heard  still  nearer.) 

Don  Pio. —  It  seems  to  me  it  is  Dolly. 

Count. —  Dolly!    Is  the  earth  about  to  open  and  swallow  me  .f* 

Dolly  {comes  in  left,  she  is  limping  a  little,  as  though  her  foot  hurt  her). — 
Grandfather  dear.  What  a  time  I  have  had  to  find  you.  Do  you  know, 
I  escaped  from  the  mayor's  house.  I  ran  to  the  Pardina,  and  they  told  me 
there  at  the  door  that  they  had  seen  you  going  to  the  church.  {Approach- 
ing.) But  what  are  you  doing  ?  You  turn  away  your  face.  (The  count 
clings  so  closely  to  Don  Pio,  that  he  hurts  him  by  his  grasp.) 

Don  Pio. —  Go  on,  my  child.     You  say  that  you  escaped  ? 

Dolly. —  I  had  to  jump  out  of  the  window.  I  hurt  my  foot.  The 
mayor  took  a  notion  to  lock  me  up  in  the  office,  because  I  told  mamma  that 
no  matter  what  happened  I  wanted  to  stay  in  Jerusa  with  grandfather;  to 
live  always  with  him.     Oh!    how  I  did  run! 

^  Count  {with  terrified  stupor). —  I  see  both  shame  and  sublimity.  I  do 
not  know  what  I  see.  Is  the  sky  falling  ?  Is  this  the  end  of  the  world,  or 
what  is  happening  here  ? 

Dolly  {pleadingly). —  Grandfather,  why  don't  you  look  at  me  ?  What 
are  you  saying  ?     Don't  you  love  me  any  more  ? 


PEREZ  GALD6S  233 

Count  (disconcerted). —  You  were  my  shame.     Why  do  you  love  me  ? 

Dolly. —  What  a  question!  {Caressing  him.)  Didn't  I  tell  you  this 
morning  that  your  Dolly  would  never  leave  you  ?  Where  you  go  I  shall  go. 
Let  my  sister  go  with  mother;  I  want  to  share  your  poverty.  I  want  to 
care  for  you,  and  be  your  heart's  own  child. 

Count  {in  deep  agitation). —  Oh,  Dolly!    Dolly! 

Dolly. —  What  is  the  matter  ? 

Count. —  I  feel  as  though  I  were  suffocating.  It  seems  that  God  with 
His  own  hands  was  tearing  my  very  soul  out  of  me  and  filling  me  with 
Himself.     The  thought  is  too  great;    I  cannot  hold  it. 

Dolly. —  If  God  should  enter  into  your  heart  He  would  find  Dolly 
there  with  her  lame  foot.  Grandfather!  My  grandfather!  When  every- 
body else  abandons  you,  I  shall  be  with  you.      {She  embraces  and  kisses  him.) 

Count  {softened). —  When  they  all  despise  me,  you  will  be  with  me. 
The  whole  world  will  tread  underfoot  the  trunk  of  Albrit,  but  Dolly  will 
make  her  nest  there. 

Dolly. —  Yes,  indeed  I  shall;  you  must  take  me  wherever  you  go,  or 
I  will  die  of  grief. 

Count  {raising  his  hands  to  heaven).  — O  God!  Out  of  the  heart 
of  this  storm  come  to  me  your  blessings.  Now  I  see  that  human  thought, 
human  calculations,  and  human  plans  are  as  nothing!  All  that  is  nothing 
but  rust,  which  corrodes  and  decays;  what  endures  is  that  which  is  within! 
The  soul  can  never  die! 

Don  Pio  {ingenuously). —  From  what  part  of  the  heavens,  or  out  of 
what  abysses  does  honor  come  your  lordship  .?   Where  is  truth  ^ 

Count  {embracing  Dolly). —  Here.  Now  let  us  go.  God  will  take 
care  of  us.     Dolly  is  not  afraid  of  poverty. 

Dolly. —  I  will  make  you  rich  and  happy  with  my  love. 

Count. —  Come  to  my  arms.  {He  takes  her  in  his  arms  as  though 
to  carry  her.)  God  has  brought  you  to  me.  {With  deep  emotion.)  My 
child,  love  is  eternal  truth. 

{They  go  towards  the  right.) 


SOME  ASPECTS  OF  ECHEGARAY 

By  Katharine  A.  Graham 

SINCE  dramatists,  as  well  as  novelists,  have  adopted  the  custom  of 
talking  to  the  reader  about  their  work,  the  English  playgoing 
public  has  been  the  recipient  of  much  severe  criticism.  Often, 
indeed,  the  voice  of  the  critic  rises  into  acrimonious  contempt. 
Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  while  preserving  his  urbanity,  observes 
with  some  sarcasm  that  the  bulk  of  every  audience  '  looks  upon 
an  evening  at  the  play  as  an  alternative  to  going  to  see  a  new  giantess,  a  new 
conjuring  trick,  a  new  feat  of  horsemanship,  or  a  new  murderer  at  Tussaud's.* 
Mr.  Shaw  utters  his  mind  with  equal  frankness:  the  modern  playgoer,  he 
avows,  though  apparently  vested  with  ears,  is  as  deaf  as  an  adder  to  the 
appeal  of  high  class  drama.  Mr.  William  Archer,  though  stanch  in  his 
belief  that  the  better  minds  of  the  day  are  coming  to  occupy  themselves 
more  and  more  sympathetically  with  the  drama  casts  a  regretful  eye  back 
to  the  times  when  Mrs.  Siddons  and  Kean  held  the  stage,  when  Lamb  and 
Hazlitt  sat  in  the  audience;  those  were  days,  he  alleges,  when  keen  appre- 
ciation and  genuine  enthusiasm  for  the  best  marked  the  English  playgoing 
public. 

These  frank  remarks  and  sighs  of  regret  have  been  sharply  answered 
by  pit  and  gallery.  *  You  show  no  capacity  for  serious  drama,'  is  the  accusa- 
tion of  the  playwright.  *  And  for  a  very  good  reason,'  testily  retorts  the 
audience,  for  you  give  us  no  serious  drama  to  appreciate.'  Even  the 
ideals  of  Ibsen,  which  largely  rule  the  modern  playwright,  are  the  subject  of 
bitter  denunciation.  Mr.  Clement  Scott  from  his  critic's  bench  hurls 
epithets  that  would  have  won  the  cordial  approval  of  Dean  Swift  against  the 
*  putrid  indecorum  '  of  the  modern  play,  and  asserts  passionately  that  he  is 
exhorted  by  Ibsen  and  his  school  to  '  laugh  at  honor,  disbelieve  in  love,  and 
mock  at  virtue.'  Many  there  are  of  Mr.  Scott's  persuasion  who  point 
questioningly  at  Shaw,  talking  cleverly  of  '  the  repudiation  of  duty  as  the 
highest  duty,'  and  denouncing  romantic  love  between  the  sexes  as  mere 
illusion,  or,  at  worst,  base  appetite;  who  listen  doubtfully  to  Mr.  Wilde's 
paradoxes  on  good  and  evil,  and  look  sharply  askance  at  Mr.  Pinero,  whose 
plays  lead  one  to  the  conclusion  that  if  ever  there  was  a  wretched,  mis- 
managed institution  upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  it  is  this  one  of  marriage 
about  which  so  many  fair  ideals  of  love  have  been  draped.     Still  another 

234 


KATHARINE  A.  GRAHAM  235 

playgoer  —  belonging  obviously  with  Mr.  Scott  to  the  old,  conservative 
class  of  theatergoers,  one  who  doubtless  believes  that  Mrs.  Alving  did  right 
to  remain  with  her  husband,  and  that  Norah  deserved  the  joint  epithets  of 
Swift  and  Mr.  Scott  for  her  desertion  of  husband  and  babies  —  pleads 
earnestly  for  a  drama  that  will  fully  reinstate  Grecian  Nemesis  upon  the 
English  stage;  that  will  show  the  doer  and  his  evil  deed  so  joined  that  no 
modern  ethical  divorce  court  can  put  them  asunder:  that  will  present  ideal 
love,  ideal  devotion  to  duty,  ideal  everything,  and  in  short  —  to  speak  in  this 
writer's  own  dignified  vernacular  *  exhibit  Fortitude  crowning  the  patient, 
daily  life  of  the  people.' 

Now  no  one  among  modern  playwrights  is  better  able  to  meet  this 
demand  for  a  serious  drama  upholding  the  old  ideals  than  Don  Jose  Eche- 
garay,  the  distinguished  Spanish  dramatist.  His  five  translated  works, 
listed  in  English  translation  as  *  The  Great  Galeoto,'  '  Folly  or  Saintliness,' 

*  The  Son  of  Don  Juan,'  *  Mariana,'  and  '  The  Madman  Divine,'  mark  him 
as  a  writer  of  singular  impressiveness.  Echegaray  is,  above  all,  serious, 
and  his  plays  have  'the  grand  style.'  While  plainly  in  the  trend  of  modern 
ethical  thought  and  frankly  acknowledging  a  debt  to  Ibsen,  he  has  held  to 
old  ideals  of  love  and  duty.  He  enforces  morality  with  Hebraic  sternness; 
he  is  relentless  in  tracing  back  the  evil  deed;  in  '  The  Son  of  Don  Juan,'  he 
brings  the  erring  generation  to  its  knees  with  grief  and  bitter  cries  for 
forgiveness.  Always,  Echegaray  brings  out  the  word  *  duty '  with  a  genu- 
inely old-fashioned  ring;  with  him  it  means  devotion  to  one's  neighbor, 
sacrifice  of  oneself,  obedience  to  abstract  laws  of  justice,  and  all  the  diffi- 
cult things  that  Mr.  Scott  doubtless  requires  of  it.  Lorenzo,  in  '  Folly  or 
Saintliness,'  after  discovering  that  he  is  a  son  of  his  old  nurse  and  not  en- 
titled to  his  wealth  and  position,  a  discovery  that  he  can  in  no  way  substan- 
tiate to  the  satisfaction  of  his  friends  and  family,  consents  to  be  locked  up  in 
a  mad  house  rather  than  to  '  know  any  other  rule  than  justice,  any  other  law 
than  truth.'  Mariana,  heroine  of  the  play  by  that  name,  refuses  to  marry 
the  man  she  deeply  loves  when  she  discovers  that  he  is  the  son  of  the  villain 
who  wrecked  her  mother's  happiness.  Finally,  Echegaray's  heroines  — 
Carmen,  Ines,  Mariana,  Fuensanta  —  love  after  the  good  old  fashion  which 
counts  the  world  well  lost  for  love,  and  are  blissfully  oblivious  — or  it  may  be 
shamelessly  indifferent  —  to  the  fact  that  they  are  under  the  dominion  of 

*  mere  illusion  or  base  appetite.'  Fuensanta,  in  '  The  Madman  Divine,* 
offers  her  entire  fortune  of  twenty  million  dollars  to  her  grasping  relatives 
if  they  in  turn  will  leave  her  to  the  *  sublime  madness  '  of  her  love  for 
Gabriel.  Mariana,  to  be  sure,  talks  at  first  with  all  the  cynicism  and  disillu- 
sionment of  a  modern  heroine  anent  love  and  matrimony.     *  Don't  you 


236  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  ECHEGARAY 

think  that  such  things  have  often  been  said  in  the  world  and  that  they  have 
nearly  always  been  lies  ?  '  she  asks  her  lover  Daniel  after  his  ardent  declara- 
tion of  love;  but  in  her  final  outburst  of  passion,  her  frantic  giving  up  of  her 
life,  she  reverts  to  the  old  type  from  which  Alcestis,  Juliet,  and  a  crowd  of 
sisters  were  set  up. 

And  it  is  by  means  of  plays  of  this  seriousness  that  Echegaray  has 
become  a  fixed  star  in  Spanish  skies  in  spite  of  the  strong  counter-attraction 
of  giantess,  conjurer,  expert  horseman,  and  murderer  —  for  we  doubt  not 
the  existence  of  these  things  or  their  equivalents  in  Spain.  Echegaray  has 
been  a  prolific  writer;  since  his  first  attempt  in  1874  he  has  produced  some 
fifty  or  sixty  plays.  Yet  even  in  the  five  to  which  the  present  discussion  is 
limited,  it  is  possible  to  find  several  correlative  qualities.  For  one  thing 
there  is  the  stamp  of  the  mathematician  upon  his  work,  for  Echegaray 
has  won  great  distinction  in  this  science  where  his  genius  first  showed 
itself.  The  dramatist  has  a  way  of  first  stating  his  problem  either  in  a 
prologue  or  early  in  the  first  act,  and  then  of  working  it  out  according  to 
exact  rules.  Of  course,  any  dramatic  writer  may  legitimately  have  in  mind 
some  set  problem  when  he  sits  down  to  write  his  play.  But  he  is  careful  to 
preserve  the  illusion  of  reality,  to  keep  the  reader  in  suspense  as  to  the  final 
outcome;  the  problem  is  naturally  and  gradually  revealed  through  the  char- 
acters and  situations  of  the  drama;  we  forget  the  dramatist  at  his  desk. 
But  Echegaray  preserves  no  such  illusion;  he  invites  the  reader  into  his  study 
and  frankly  tells  him  how  the  forthcoming  play  is  to  be  made.  Thus  in  the 
unique  prologue  to  '  The  Great  Galeoto,'  omitted  in  the  American  adapta- 
tion, *  The  World  and  His  Wife,'  Ernest,  a  young  poet,  dreams  of  writing 
a  wonderful  play,  in  which  the  principal  character  will  be  Galeoto,  or 
Everybody,  monster  of  a  thousand  heads,  who,  without  making  his  way 
to  the  stage,  will  fill  and  possess  the  scene.  All  this  is  a  picturesque  way  of 
stating  that  one  innocent  group  of  people  shall  be  ruined  by  gossip.  Then 
Echegaray  proceeds  to  work  out  his  problem  —  to  ring  up  the  curtain  upon 
Ernest,  Julian,  Teodora,  and  the  invisible  but  omnipresent  Galeoto.  So 
well  does  the  author  clothe  this  old  motif  in  flesh  and  blood,  that  unless  we 
be  hardened  rationalists  unable  to  enter  into  the  illusions  of  the  theater  and 
forget  as  did  Lamb  at  his  first  play  that  the  actors  were  *  but  men  and  women 
painted,'  we  find  ourselves  asking  at  the  drop  of  the  curtain  where  Ernest 
went  with  the  lovely  Teodora,  if  they  were  happy,  and  if  Ernest  ever  wrote 
his  great  play  about  Galeoto,  for  these  Spanish  characters  with  their  fiery 
natures  grip  the  imagination;  a  trace  of  the  plumed  hat  and  clanking  sword 
of  the  medieval  Spaniard  is  in  their  blood  if  not  on  their  persons.  Eche- 
garay,  however,   never   allows   his   spectators   to   be   merely   entertained; 


KATHARINE  A.  GRAHAM  237 

gravely  he  reminds  them  of  the  danger  in  the  midst  of '  Hght  words,  fugitive 
glances,  indifferent  smiles,'  where  '  not  even  the  most  insignificant  actions 
are  in  themselves  insignificant  or  lost  for  good  or  evil.' 

In  this  last  warning,  which  epitomizes  the  theme  of  the  play,  we  read 
a  favorite  motif  of  the  dramatist  —  that  dullness,  low  aims,  and  a  gossiping 
spirit  have  risen  when  more  than  two  or  three  are  gathered  together  lor  social 
diversion.  Under  this  aspect,  Echegaray  could  not  meet  the  demand  of 
the  playg;oer  with  serious  ideals  who  asked  that  fortitude  be  made  to  crown 
the  daily  life  of  the  people.  Echegaray  presents  fortitude,  splendid  integrity 
of  character,  high  aims,  but  always  they  are  isolated  in  one  solitary  individual 
set  over  against  a  petty  and  malicious  society.  The  group  of  meddling 
relatives  and  friends  in  '  The  Great  Galeoto  '  reappears  under  different 
names  in  other  of  his  plays,  and  receives  his  strongest  denunciation  from  the 
lips  of  Angeles,  in  'The  Madman  Divine.'  After  catching  a  glimpse  of  her 
own  face  in  the  glass  during  a  fit  of  anger,  she  confides  to  a  friend,  '  How 
ugly!  It  looked  like  the  face  of  a  bird  of  prey;  just  as  if  I  were  on  the  point 
of  swooping  down.  When  I  confessed  this  sin,  the  confessor  told  me  it  was 
the  face  of  vanity,  of  anger,  of  avarice.  fVell  they  (meaning  the  meddling 
relatives  and  friends)  all  have  that  expression.' 

Dignity  of  character,  self-sacrifice,  and  devotion  to  abstract  laws  of 
justice  receive  splendid  exemplification  in  the  person  of  Lorenzo,  in  '  Folly 
or  Saintliness.'  In  this  play,  as  in  '  The  Great  Galeoto,'  there  is  a  presenta- 
tion of  the  proposed  task  of  the  dramatist,  the  same  clash  of  the  individual 
against  public  opinion.  Under  the  spell  of  Cervantes,  Echegaray  resolved 
to  send  forth  a  hero  who  will  struggle  for  justice  in  the  real  world  as  Cer- 
vantes's  hero  struggled  in  the  realm  of  his  imagination.  This  Quixotic  de- 
votion to  conscience  leads  Lorenzo  into  the  madhouse,  presumably  for  the 
rest  of  his  days.  If  we  are  intent  only  upon  the  story,  we  may  find  consola- 
tion for  the  sad  plight  of  the  hero  in  the  fact  that  it  enables  Ines,  his  daughter, 
to  enter  into  her  dream  of  happiness.  Yet  —  upon  second  thoughts  — the 
play  hardly  bears  this  reading.  Ines  was  a  devoted  daughter  and  probably 
the  possession  of  her  Edward  and  his  ducal  coronet  did  not  assuage  the 
memory  of  her  father  and  his  strait-jacket.  The  real  stimulation  of  the 
play  is  in  the  noble  struggle  of  the  hero;  although  a  losing  one  in  terms  of 
ducal  coronet  and  strait-jacket,  it  is  calculated  to  act  as  a  Katharsis  to  our 
enfeebled  imaginations  which  cannot  always  work  upon  so  abstract  a  plane. 
A  great  struggle,  nobly  endured  to  the  end,  possesses  a  tonic  quality  and 
makes  one  half  in  love  with  failure,  eager  for  the  life  of  renunciation,  without 
which,  says  Mr.  George  Moore,  life  is  a  mere  triviality.  And  the  mood  that 
inspired  Lorenzo's  struggle  with  its  renunciation  of  personal  happiness  is 


238  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  ECHEGARAY 

the  same  that  we  read  with  pulses  stirred  in  Henley's  poems,  in  Hardy's 
novels,  in  certain  of  Stevenson's  essays. 

In  '  1  he  Son  of  Don  Juan,'  the  author  again  sets  himself  a  task  —  that 
of  transplanting  the  problem  of  Ibsen's  '  Ghosts '  to  Spanish  soil.  The  most 
pleasing  part  of  this  work  is  the  prologue  in  which  Echegaray  chats  frankly 
and  informally  with  his  readers.  He  acknowledges  that  this  work  brought 
him  a  tine  pelting  from  the  critics,  who,  one  and  all,  fell  into  a  passion  and 
denounced  his  drama  as  pathological,  somber,  with  no  other  object  than  that 
of  arousing  horror.  'Butits  motive  was  very  different,'  protests  Seiior  Eche- 
garay, with  unruffled  urbanity,  *  I  shall  not  explain  it.  I  never  defend  my 
dramas.'  One  wishes,  however,  that  he  had  not  gone  off  into  whimsical  si- 
lence without  a  word  in  explanation  of  his  play.  It  is  difficult  to  see  in  it 
anything  but  a  study  of  heredity  lunacy,  and  therefore  but  an  imperfect  and 
superficial  reading  of  Ghosts,'  in  which  heredity  is  by  no  means  the  main 
theme.  '  The  Son  of  Don  |uan  '  has  no  suspense,  no  clash  of  motive.  When 
in  the  opening  scene  Don  Juan  boasts  to  his  companions  of  his  gay  and  licen- 
tious life,  of  his  hopes  in  his  gifted  son,  Lazarus,  and  when,  shortly  after- 
wards, we  see  Lazarus,  his  face  pale,  his  steps  unsteady,  his  mind  inclined 
to  wander,  we  read  at  once  the  somber  development  of  the  play;  the  acts 
following  merely  picture  the  progress  of  the  disease  of  Lazarus,  his  sundering 
of  all  ties  with  Carmen,  the  bitter  grief  of  his  mother,  the  deep  contrition  of 
his  father.  To  be  sure,  the  darkness  of  the  drama  receives  an  occasional 
flash  of  light;  Don  Juan's  description  of  the  morning  when  he  awoke  from 
an  orgy  and  saw  through  the  perfumed  hair  of  the  larifena  the  splendid 
rising  of  the  sun,  and  was  stirred  to  new  desires  for  a  higher  love,  aspirations 
for  a  purer  life,  proceeds  from  the  poetic  and  not  the  mathematical  genius 
of  the  author. 

After  a  reading  of  '  The  Madman  Divine,'  the  suspicion  aroused  by 
*  The  Son  of  Don  juan  '  that  the  subject  of  lunacy  has  a  peculiar  attraction 
for  Echegaray  deepens  into  certainty.  At  first  reading,  the  play  is  a  wanton 
exhibition  of  insanity,  the  dramatist  seemingly  taking  the  same  pleasure 
in  its  portrayal  that  the  early  sculptors  took  in  the  exhibition  of  mere  brute 
force.  Yet,  a  broader  reading  of  the  play  is  possible.  Ihe  scene  opens  in 
the  home  of  Fuensanta,  a  wealthy  young  widow  surrounded  by  the  usual 
group  of  meddling  relatives.  Into  this  gossiping  circle  walks  Gabriel, 
scholar,  philanthropist,  traveler,  and  the  accepted  lover  of  Fuensanta. 
Gabriel  has  no  small  talk,  but  soars  away  beyond  the  intellectual  reach  of 
the  group.  He  talks  on  great  subjects  and  frequently  breaks  out  into  sen- 
tences suggesting  a  mystic  crazed  by  his  visions.  Even  Fuensanta  is  often 
horrified  even  while  allured.     In  spite  of  the  protests  of  the  meddling  uncles 


KATHARINE  A.  GRAHAM  239 

and  some  further  symptoms  of  insanity  on  the  part  of  Gabriel,  the  wedding 
takes  place.  After  the  ceremony  the  groom  removes  any  wistful  doubts  in 
the  mind  of  his  bride  as  to  his  insanity  by  various  mad  outbreaks.  He 
identities  himself  with  deity  and  announces  himself  as  the  one  God.  He 
attacks  and  overpowers  one  of  the  uncles  and  steps  are  taken  to  have  him 
locked  up.  The  last  act  of  the  drama  depicts  the  progress  of  his  disease  and 
Fuensanta's  clinging  devotion.  Finally,  the  mad  bridegroom  manages  to 
set  fire  to  the  house  and  the  curtain  goes  down  on  the  rtame-encircled  pair, 
Fuensanta  ecstatically  welcoming  death  with  her  *  madman  divine  '  rather 
than  life  without  him.  Ghastly  as  is  this  theme  in  the  telling  it  is  invested 
with  all  Echegaray's  peculiar  power  and  poetry.  Ihe  figure  of  mad  Gabriel 
is  never  petty  nor  ordinary;  we  realize  that  his  madness  is  a  result  of  the 
greatness  of  his  reach,  a  reach  too  far  exceeding  his  grasp;  his  brain  sur- 
renders to  the  mighty  thoughts  that  beat  upon  it.  I'he  play  is  a  weird 
tour  de  force:  it  gives  us  the  feeling  of  tragedy  even  while  limiting  the  struggle 
to  one  human  brain.  We  may  not  accept  the  theme,  but  we  cannot  deny 
the  power  of  the  dramatist  in  this  as  well  as  in  the  other  four  plays. 

Certainly  in  this  easy-going  day  when  the  public  likes  to  settle  back 
comfortably  into  its  chair  at  the  play,  when  many  dramatists  justify  Mr. 
Scott's  complaint,  and  exhort  us  '  to  laugh  at  honor  and  mock  at  virtue,'  it 
is  an  event  to  meet  a  playwright  who  stimulates,  who  induces  moral  reflection, 
as  does  Senor  Echegaray.  We  do  not  attempt  in  the  present  brief  article 
to  give  academic  judgment  concerning  him  as  an  artist,  but  only  to  assert 
that  his  plays  have  what  Mr.  Edward  Everett  Hale  calls  *  that  something 
which  lasts  for  awhile  after  one  leaves  the  theater.' 


IN  DELOS  — IN  THE  DRIFTING  ISLE         ( 

IT  was  within  the  narrow  isle  — 
The  isle  long  since  that  drifting  tried 
The  southmost  sea  —  where  not  a  field 
Could  wish  to  be  more  wide, 
When  that  its  straight  bound  so  might  yield 
A  charm  the  princelier  lands  have  not  revealed  — 
This  view  so  fair  upon  the  far-off  blowing  tide. 

To  that  low  wall  of  ancient  stone 

An  idle  wanderer  I  came, 
And  found  me  there  a  world  too  new  — 

Too  briefly  fair  to  name; 
For  there  against  the  iEgean  blue, 
A  thousand  flowers  were  at  the  first  review, 

Spreading  to  gentle  winds  the  valor  of  their  flame. 

Soon  was  the  ruined  barrier  passed: 

And  in  the  grasses  down  I  lay 
And  saw  no  more  than  one  clear  sky  — 

One  azure  from  the  bay  — 
One  many  blossomed  mist,  that  high 
Above  me,  with  a  soft  continuing  sigh, 

Lent  a  bright  hem  of  color  to  the  paler  day. 

A  nodding  poppy  on  her  stem  — 

Straight  up  she  stood  against  the  sun 
And  floated  stilly  like  a  cloud. 

And  of  her  mates  not  one 
But  wore  a  face  as  gently  proud, 
And  danced  a  round  among  the  fairy  crowd. 

In  golden  mantle  fine  by  meek  rain  women  spun. 

So  lying,  changed  from  what  I  was, 

With  ears  that  scarce  were  mine  almost 
I  heard  a  mute  and  lovely  tune 

Some  chanting  god  had  lost: 
And  saw  by  other  eyes,  within  the  noon, 
Fleet  for  the  chase,  wearing  her  silver  moon, 

Diana,  on  her  way,  adown  the  singing  coast. 

Mildred  McNeal  Sweeney 
240 


POETIC  LANGUAGE 

By  Ivan  Calvin  Waterbury 

THE  monumental  development  of  craftsmanship  nowadays 
along  the  lines  pointed  out  by  William  Morris  has  proved 
anything  but  a  fad.  All  handicrafts  are  shaping  themselves 
to  the  same  ideal;  and  the  mighty  machinery  crafts  are  soon 
to  follow.  The  movement  is  borne  along  by  the  mighty  ghost 
born  of  Morris's  genius,  which  is  steadily  animating  with 
human  life  the  body  of  the  Titan  labor.  The  craftsmanship  of  literature, 
which  our  forefathers  down  to  the  time  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  fitly  called  book 
craft,  is  no  exception.  Morris  treated  literature  (bookcraft)  as  he  did  all 
the  other  crafts  he  created  or  revived  and  excelled  in;  and  likewise  he  went 
down  to  its  fundamentals  in  style.  And  even  to  this  day  style  is  sometimes 
called  by  its  old  expressive  synonym  wordcrajt.  I  have  seen  the  word  used  in 
newspapers,  actually!  Therein  this  great  and  good  man  laid  the  broad 
groundwork  whereon  more  and  more  bookcraftsmen  will  build,  until  they 
embody  in  English  song  and  tale  all  the  rest  of  the  manifold  characteristic 
charms  of  kindred  Teutonic  literatures  that  have  been  found  inexpressible 
in  the  fashionable  idiom  of  the  '  king's  English.' 

Not  every  double-yolked  egg  could  bring  forth  Castor  and  Pollux,  but 
many  can  hatch  twin  eagles.  1  he  same  holds  good  of  those  verbal  eggs 
which  are  the  oflFspring  of  poetic  fancies. 

The  language  of  poetry  is  herein  treated  in  distinction  from  the  lan- 
guage of  reason,  or  that  which  appeals  directly  to  the  understanding.  1  he 
language  of  reason  is  used  by  science  to  widen  the  realm  of  exact  knowledge. 
It  it  used  by  philosophy  to  show  the  relations  of  the  facts  of  science.  By 
philosophy  I  do  not  mean  metaphysics,  by  long  odds!  Metaphysics  uses 
the  language  of  reason,  as  do  other  branches  of  alleged  human  knowledge; 
but  these  use  it  only  to  clothe  phantasms  drawn  from  the  inner  conscious- 
ness, which  it  would  be  more  honest  to  clothe  in  the  language  of  poetry! 
No  apologies  to  Puritan  priestcraft!  Poetry  is  socially  useful  because  it  is 
known  for  what  it  is.  Metaphysics  is  socially  dangerous  because  it  mas- 
querades as  contribution  to  human  knowledge,  whereas  it  is  nothing  of  the 
kind.  It  is  gradually  dawning  upon  the  majority  of  us  that  the  solvable 
portion  of  the  mvstery  of  the  universe  can  be  solved  only  by  the  thorny  road 
of  science;  and  that  it  is  the  business  of  poetry  to  delight  us  along  the  same 

241 


242  POETIC  LANGUAGE 

road  by  songs  of  the  road!     Campare  Walt  Whitman's  '  Song  of  the  Open 
Road.' 

The  language  of  poetry  appeals  to  the  understanding  also,  but  mainly 
by  indirect  suggestion  through  the  imagination  and  the  emotions.  Science 
purposes  to  convey  truth  and  nothing  else.  True  poetry  purposes  the  same 
but  only  in  such  wise  as  to  give  esthetic  pleasure.  Science  must  denote  pre- 
cisely v^hat  it  says.  Poetry  must  connote  a  great  deal  more.  The  language 
of  poetry  is,  above  all  things,  suggestive,  connotative,  hintful. 

This  is  why  scientific  English  contains  so  many  Latinisms  and  poetical 
English  so  few,  outside  of  the  macaronic  school  of  Milton.  For  instance,  it 
is  desirable  for  science  to  borrow  an  alien  term  like  mercury,  which,  being 
free  from  previous  meanings  and  associations  in  English,  when  spelled 
without  a  capital,  must  always  bear  the  precise  meaning  first  stamped  upon 
it  by  the  chemist.  But  this  very  merit  of  insulation  for  the  language  of 
science  makes  the  same  word  inadequate  for  poetic  usage.  Therefore,  the 
less  precise  Anglo-Saxon  compound  quicksilver  fits  the  poet's  need  better. 
Poetry  has  much  to  do  with  psychology,  but  it  cannot  call  the  science  by  the 
same  name  in  its  own  dialect.  Soullore  (like  Seellehre  in  German)  would 
fulfill  the  poet's  need  much  better.  More  by  token,  several  markworthy 
writers  have  suggested  soulish  for  psychic  and  psychical.  There  are  many 
such  parallels  besides  that  of  science  and  knowledge,  but  there  should  be 
many  more.  Here  is  the  longfelt  want  in  poetic  English.  Science  has  made 
such  cataclysmal  progress  in  the  last  fifty  years  that  the  Muses  have  been 
left  gasping,  awestruck,  speechless,  for  lack  of  words  in  their  English  to 
name  fitly  the  wonders  that  have  been  unfolded  with  lightning-like  speed. 
There  is  no  way  to  fulfill  this  need  but  by  revival  of  early  English  roots  and 
methodsof compounding.  That  is  howtheGerman  language  has  been  created 
m  all  its  purity  within  the  last  two  hundred  years  since  it  has  graduated  from 
its  macaronic  stage.  Science,  in  its  phenomenal  activity,  has  built  up  a 
dialect  in  English  adequate  for  its  own  use.  The  more  backward  poetry, 
the  greatest  of  the  fine  arts  (highcrafts,  as  they  would  be  called  if  we  trans- 
lated the  Anglo-Saxon  heahcraeft),  is  left  with  a  meager  thesaurus  (word- 
hoard)  to  do  science  justice  with.  I  have  interviewed  scientists  on  this 
subject,  and  have  their  concurrence. 

The  present  writing  has  to  do  with  English  fit  for  verse  and  what  is 
known  as  poetic  prose.  In  this  field  wordcraft  works  best  with  homebred 
roots,  even  at  the  occasional  sacrifice  of  sonority,  though  more  often  with 
gain  in  both  sonority  and  expressiveness.  The  needs  of  the  prose  romancer 
and  literary  essayist  far  overlap  those  of  the  poet.  But  as  hardshell  conserva- 
tism concedes  most  neological  freedom  to  the  poets,  I  shall  confine  my 


IVAN  CALVIN  WATERBURY  243 

suggestions  mainly  to  them.  At  the  same  time,  I  am  full  well  aware  that 
radical  prose  writers  are  not  slow  to  follow  worthy  poetic  example,  no  matter 
what  macaronic  conservatism  is  willing  to  vouchsafe,  i  he  interested 
reader  can  be  trusted  to  appreciate  all  justifiable  militancy.  And  be  it 
understood  that  the  aim  is  less  to  revolutionize  English  than  to  enrich  it 
w^here  there  is  crying  need. 

James  Russell  Lowell  handed  down  the  opinion:  'Perhaps  there 
might  be  a  question  between  the  old  English  again  rising  and  resurrectioriy 
but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  conscience  is  better  than  inwit,  and  remorse 
than  againbite.'  Such  is  the  ruling  of  a  weighty  judge;  but,  as  attorney  in 
this  case,  I  use  the  right  to  take  out  an  exception.  I  acknowledge  that  con- 
science is  more  sonorous  than  iniuit,  but  it  is  not  so  expressive  of  the  Anglo- 
Teutonic  cast  of  mind.  Desirable  as  sonority  always  is,  expressiveness  is 
much  more  so.  Would  that  both  were  always  found  together!  However 
why  in  the  name  of  reason  should  we  not  have  both  inwit  and  conscience 
available  to  fit  the  shades  of  character  of  different  contexts  ^  Why  not  have 
likewise  the  other  two  pairs  of  words  Lowell  mentions  ?  No  language  can 
be  too  rich  in  synonyms  to  fulfill  the  manifold  needs  of  the  shifting  shades  of 
human  thought,  especially  poetic  thought.  Our  coming  poets  will  have  to 
treat  the  sublimities  that  the  ponderous  Latinisms  of  art,  science,  and 
philosophy  stand  for;  but  they  will  have  to  do  so  in  homebred  English  in 
order  to  be  widely  appreciated  by  the  great  folkmind.  The  literary  trend 
of  the  day  is  back  to  Saxondom,  both  with  prose  and  poetry,  notwithstanding 
sporadic  reaction  in  high  places.  Henceforward,  I  will  save  time  by  sug- 
gesting a  pure  English  synonym  in  parentheses  after  each  Latinism,  where- 
ever  it  seems  desirable. 

As  we  have  barely  begun  to  study  English,  few  realize  how  great  is  her 
native  (homeling)  wealth,  even  in  such  words  as  are  to  be  found  in  every- 
bodv's  active  or  passive  vocabulary  (wordhoard).  If  we  merely  made  a 
gathering  of  all  such  household  words  as  are  found  sprinkled  through  the 
books  and  journals  (tidings  books,  newsbooks,  tidings  sheets,  newspapers) 
of  the  day,  we  should  have  a  dictionary  (wordbook)  large  enough  to  make 
an  English  novel  or  epic  poem  (heleth-song)  read  like  one  in  the  link-tongue 
between  Dutch  and  Danish  that  English  is.  Of  course  William  Morris  was 
the  master  of  masters  at  this  kind  of  thing,  and  our  link-kinship  between 
Low  German  and  Scandinavian  is  most  markworthy  in  both  his  prose  and 
his  verse.  For  the  sake  of  settings  in  keeping  with  such  pioneering  use  of 
pure  modern  English,  the  late  craftsmaster  wisely  chose  olden  themes.  I 
call  his  English  modern  in  that  it  had  all  been  used  within  the  modern  period 
since  Langland  and  Chaucer;    all  except  the  few  compounds  he  created. 


244  POETIC  LANGUAGE 

It  is  widely  acknowledged  that  a  poet  has  a  right  to  seek  his  own  as  far  back 
as  Chaucer  and  a  prose  writer  as  far  back  as  Tyndale.  Moreover,  Morris 
used  olden  themes  largely  for  the  sake  of  symbolism  (tokencraft)  for  which 
pure  English  is  best.  Bookcraft  will  embody  tokencraft  more  and  more. 
The  new  symbolism  bears  the  same  kinship  to  the  old-fashioned,  clumsy 
allegory  that  metonymy  does  to  simile  and  metaphor.  Bright,  flashing, 
fleeting  metonymy  was  the  favorite  figure  of  the  singer  of  Beowulf,'  as  it  is  in 
the  songcraft  of  to-day.  Compare  the  symbolism  which  Bjornson,  Ibsen, 
and  Maeterlinck  have  made  so  famous  with  the  obtrusive  allegory  of 
Spenser's  *The  Faerie  Queene  '  and  divine  (spae)  the  method  of  the  coming 
epists  of  modern  life.  Here  is  the  key  to  William  Morris's  great  epic  of  the 
fatality  of  the  reign  of  goldgreed  and  the  hatred  born  thereof,  '  The  Story 
of  Sigurd  the  Volsung.'  He  wrought  the  Pan-Teutonic  cycle  in  symbolical 
English,  which  gives  only  mystic  implication  of  the  cosmic  allegory  therein 
embodied.  The  English  is  as  pure  as  that  of  Layamon's  '  Brut,'  yet  fit  for 
other  than  archaic  purposes.  Skilful  craftsmen  can  shape  it  to  modern 
themes  and  symbols,  now  that  Morris  has  got  the  camel's  nose  in.  Every 
original  poet  has  to  make  a  dialect  of  his  own.  This  becomes  a  wordhoard 
for  later  songcraftsmen  to  draw  upon,  who  further  enrich  the  general  lan- 
guage of  poetry.  Before  you  can  appreciate  any  great  poet  or  any  great 
philosopher,  you  have  to  '  learn  his  great  language,'  as  Browning  sings. 

Robert  Browning  read  Johnson's  dictionary  through  four  times.  But 
the  average  writer  of  English  deems  lexicology  (wordlore)  a  negligible  study. 
This  is  because  he  has  been  so  carefully  imbued  with  cant  faith  in  the  ready- 
made  perfection  of  the  language  he  has  inherited  and  that  of  the  social 
system  that  has  inherited  him.  Professors  of  rhetoric  (speechcraft)  hold 
*  poets  are  born,  not  made;  but  prose  writers  are  made,  not  born.'  So 
saying,  they  leave  poet-training  severely  alone;  and  unlike  the  skalds  and 
bards  of  old,  the  latter-day  poet  goes  untaught,  though  heaven  knows  how 
much  teaching  he  needs  in  his  craft!  Rhetoricus  teaches  elaborately  how 
to  balance  heavy  sentences  and  mass  them  into  paragraphs,  after  Macaulay 
or  De  Quincey  or  Henry  James,  or  whomsoever  happens  to  be  the  favorite 
professorial  model.  To  be  sure,  I  knew  one  rhetorician  who  never  would 
praise  anything  that  was  not  modelled  on  Kipling  or  Stephenson.  Rheto- 
ricus calls  the  paragraph  '  the  element  of  style,'  and  virtually  alleges  that  it 
is  the  Alpha  and  Omega  of  style.  Let  any  practical  writer  try  to  show  him 
that  the  paragraph  is  merely  a  division  of  punctuation,  the  next  above  a  full 
stop!  Why  a  life-saving  crew  could  not  reach  Rhetoricus  with  a  thousand- 
foot  shotline!  Word  building  and  phrase  making  he  contemptuously  re- 
fuses to  spend  time  on,  unless  you  perpetrate  something  that  he  thinks 


IVAN  CALVIN  WATERBURY  245 

Macaulay  or  De  Quincey  or  James  would  not  sanction.  Then  you  learn 
that  his  other  name  is  Logomachus.  How  he  does  hate  to  get  down  to 
verbal  fundamentals  that  might  change  the  whole  complexion  of  a  compo- 
sition, and  make  it  unrecognizable  in  the  light  of  his  few  models!  Often  he 
knows  nothing  of  Anglo-Saxon  or  German  or  Scandinavian;  nothing  of  the 
enlightening  discoveries  of  Teutonic  philology  during  the  last  century.  He 
has  slighted  the  history  of  English  grammar  (speechlore),  alleging  that  it 
has  little  bearing  on  his  specialty.  He  has  no  conception  of  the  place  of  his 
specialty  in  history  or  in  society.  He  has  not  realized  that  the  restoration 
of  the  long-lost  beauties  of  the  English  language  has  been  fast  fulfilling  itself 
during  the  last  fifty  years  of  the  study  of  Teutonic  philology  in  the  English- 
speaking  world.  1  he  general  sloughing  oflF of  Latinistic  pedantry  in  popular 
writing  has  resulted  from  that  study.  Yet  the  reactionary  Rhetoricus 
Logomachus  wilfully  blinds  himself  to  all  this,  and  the  effect  is  all  the  same 
whether  he  hides  his  head  in  the  sand  or  in  the  clouds. 

Large  as  our  Scandinavian-American  population  is,  three  fifths  of  our 
whole  number  are  German.  Here  is  a  continental-minded,  intelligent 
reading  public  to  whom  English  Teutonisms  are  more  appreciable  and 
welcome  in  the  adopted  tongue  than  Latinisms.  I  have  talked  this  matter 
over  with  scores  of  these  Teutons  of  foreign  birth  or  parentage  and  found 
them  all  likeminded,  though  I  happen  to  be  pure  English  and  Scotch,  with 
a  Yankee  lineage  two  hundred  and  seventy-odd  years  long.  My  own 
Teutonic  bias  I  attribute  to  rearing  and  education  among  the  influences  and 
associations  of  the  Pan-Teutonic  Mississippi  Valley.  I  once  asked  a 
German  high  school  ma'am  in  Chicago,  who  let  fall  an  appreciative  remark 
about  Chaucer,  '  Don't  you  find  it  hard  to  read  Chaucer  ^  '  '  Oh  no!  '  she 
exclaimed,  patronizingly;  '  you  forget  how  many  Germanlike  expressions 
he  uses  that  should  make  him  easier  for  me  to  read  than  most  English  is.' 
A  German-born  professor  of  Germanic  languages  and  literatures  in  the 
University  of  Chicago,  who  was  not  a  strong  admirer  of  William  Morris, 
once  called  my  attention  to  a  German  translation  of  *  The  Story  of  Sigurd 
the  Volsung.'  '  Don't  they  find  that  pretty  hard  to  translate  into  German  ?  * 
I  asked.  '  Oh  no,'  he  answered;  *  you  should  readily  see  how  much  easier 
it  would  be  to  render  such  English  into  German  than  any  other.'  The 
Norwegian  teacher  of  Scandinavian  languages  and  literatures  in  the  same 
faculty  told  me  of  his  intention  to  assign  the  reading  of  The  Story  of  Sigurd 
the  Volsung  '  and  the  Morris-Magnusson  translation  of  '  The  Volsunga 
Saga  '  in  a  course  on  '  Teutonic  Traditions.'  '  How  does  such  English  seem 
to  your  countrymen  ^  '  I  asked  him.  *  Naturally  a  great  deal  easier  than 
any  other,'  he  replied, '  it's  so  Teutonistic'  I  was  once  discussing  the  relative 


246  POETIC  LANGUAGE 

merits  of  English  and  German  with  the  editor  of  a  magazine  called  Deutsch- 
Amerikanische  Geschichtsblatter,  who,  though  a  cultured  old  Forty-eighter, 
still  spoke  with  an  accent.  '  I  hold,'  said  he,  '  that  English  has  not  grown 
like  a  living  language,  but  by  inanimate  accretion,  like  a  crystal.  I  don't 
say  it  has  no  inner  vitality  to  grow  from;  but  I  believe  that  it  has  grown  as 
far  as  it  can  by  accumulation  from  outside.  It  has  taken  on  more  foreign 
matter  than  the  speech  of  every  day  can  assimilate,  and  must  either  dry  up 
and  decay  or  else  develop  from  native  sources.  Now  my  belief  is  that 
English  will  henceforth  grow  more  and  more  from  its  own  roots,  under  the 
influence  of  the  overwhelming  Germanic  majority  of  our  population. 
Americans  will  find  this  as  necessary  to  English  as  it  was  found  to  my 
mother  tongue  at  the  beginning  of  the  great  German  Romantic  Movement.* 

Professor  George  Hempl,  the  philologist,  once  suggested  that,  while  the 
Germans  in  America  will  never  supplant  English  with  German,  or  even 
introduce  many  German  words,  they  will  so  influence  the  national  cast  of 
mind  as  to  reteutonize  English  along  Anglo-Saxon  lines. 

I  have  tried  sundry  styles  of  English  on  all  classes  of  German  and 
Scandinavian  Americans,  including  sailors  on  the  Great  Lakes  and  brick 
makers;    and 

*  Try  it  by  whatever  token, 
Still  the  selfsame  answer's  spoken.' 

There  is  so  much  debatable  land  between  the  English  of  poetry  and 
that  of  popular  prose  that  either  the  poet  or  novelist  who  chooses,  a  hundred 
years  hence,  can  write  in  a  folkspeech  as  pure  as  that  of  the  singer  of  '  Beo- 
wulf '  or  that  of  King  Alfred,  and  as  rich  as  all  the  kindred  Teutonic  tongues 
taken  together.  All  English  culture  was  Latinistic  from  the  Norman  Con- 
quest down  to  the  dawn  of  the  English  romantic  movement;  yet  it  could  not 
unmake  the  Anglo-Saxon  character  of  the  folkspeech.  English  stems  and 
aflfixes  have  never  lost  their  power  of  forming  self-explaining  compounds. 
As  Brandt's  German  Grammar  puts  it:  '  The  capacity  of  German  for  form- 
ing such  compounds  is  generally  exaggerated,  and  that  of  English  generally 
underrated.  We  might  just  as  well  write  them  so,  in  English:  Fireinsur- 
ancecompanysoffice;  and  we  should  have  the  same  compound.'  What  if 
we  should  learn  to  vary  such  hybrids  with  something  in  pure  Anglo-Saxon 
like  Fireunderwritersreckoninghouse?  Seeing  that  office  means  counting- 
house,  reckoning-house  expresses  the  same  idea!  That  should  serve  some 
hardbestead  poet  a  turn  in  iambic  tetrameter,  which,  compared  witn  the 
hybrid  fright,  would  be  a  thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy  forever!  By  the  way, 
alluding  to  the  art  of  reckoning,  or  arithmetic,  take  the  German  Rechen- 
kunst.     Why  should  we  not  use  reckoncrafty  seeing  that  it  would  be  hard 


IVAN  CALVIN  WATERBURY  247 

to  revive  the  Middle-English  rimecrafty  because  of  the  modern  association  of 
rime  w^ith  poetical  numbers  ?  By  the  same  token,  the  Elizabethans  often 
called  a  professional  arithmetician,  or  accountant,  a  reckonmaster.  This 
latter  word  would  be  just  as  intelligible  nowadays. 

I  am  well  aware  how  the  bare  hint  of  such  things  raises  the  goose-flesh 
of  macaronic  conservatism,  whose  business  it  is  to  fight  everything  new, 
whether  it  be  worthy  or  unworthy.  On  the  other  hand,  what  is  a  radical .? 
One  who  goes  to  the  root  of  things.  Unlike  his  opponent,  the  radical  does 
not  believe  that  whatever  is  is  right,  merely  because  it  is.  In  his  root- 
wisdom,  he  is  the  only  one  who  wins  back  treasures  from  the  undying  past 
or  brings  forth  anything  new  for  the  future.  The  radical  is  not  the  champion 
(forefighter)  of  that  social  inertia  which,  from  everlasting  to  everlasting,  is  too 
almighty  to  need  any  champion.  That  can  be  trusted  to  take  care  of  itself. 
None  but  the  radical  works  with  both  foresight  and  hindsight. 

Much  is  said  on  both  sides;  but  sometimes  the  public  taste  can  be 
taught  to  like  the  homeborn,  the  homebred,  and  the  homemade.  Such  has 
been  the  case  in  Germany.  *  Made  in  Germany  '  is  justly  the  pride  of  the 
Vaterland.  But  some  day  it  will  mean  less  to  us  than  *  Made  in  America.* 
The  greatest  of  the  wonders  wrought  in  Germany  within  the  last  two  hun- 
dred years,  the  thing  which  our  poets  are  the  first  to  deem  worthy  of  emula- 
tion, is  German, —  the  language  of  that  nation  which  has  admittedly  done 
more  for  the  culture  of  the  world  in  a  century  than  all  other  nations  put  to- 
gether. The  living  age  of  Teutonic  culture  has  succeeded  the  dead  or  dying 
age  of  Latinistic  culture  in  the  English-speaking  world.  The  prevailing 
1  eutonic  influences  cannot  help  modifying  a  language  already  essentially 
Teutonic  much  more  than  did  the  long-regnant  Latinism  now  moribund. 
The  rearguard  of  Latinism  has  left  many  malcontents  in  our  seats  of  learning; 
but  its  bolt  has  been  shot.  True,  Professor  Rhetoricus  Logomachus  says, 
*  Use  one  element  or  the  other  as  the  thought  requires.'  But  this  is  not  to 
the  point;  and  he  and  his  fellow  criticasters  always  show  hostility  (foeship) 
to  much  unmixed  English,  on  general  principles.  Such  a  rhetorician  as 
A.  S.  Hill  is  a  rabid  Latinistic  reactionary,  a  hardshell  dogmatist.  Genung, 
the  least  backward  of  the  transitionists,  warily  acknowledges  the  worthiness 
of  the  present  trend  toward  Anglo-Saxonism,  and  even  indulges  in  the  coin- 
age speech-part-ship  from  his  own  mint.  Such  a  word,  though  a  hybrid,  be- 
tokens the  kind  of  mintwork  herein  spoken  for.  It  is  put  together  in  keeping 
with  the  genius  (speechghost)  of  our  folk  tongue.  I  grant  the  justice  of 
Genung's  warning  against  the  abuse  of  such  free  coinage  *  by  ill-furnished 
writers.'  Only  I  move  that  such  words  be  met  in  less  of  the  cat-and-dog 
spirit,  and  with  more  of  that  open-mindedness  which  they  meet  with  in 


248  POETIC  LANGUAGE 

every  Teutonic  language  except  our  don-ridden  English!  Especially  such 
should  be  their  lot  when  they  are  minted  by  w^/Z-furnished  writers.  Con- 
tinental scholars  find  no  Caucasian  people  so  ignorant  of  the  grammatical 
laws  of  its  own  language  as  the  British  and  Americans;  none  so  full  of 
ignorant  intolerance  of  suggestions  for  fostering  the  natural  growth  ot  their 
mother  tongue,  I  mean  suggestions  like  that  of  Max  Miiller,  He  urged 
that  English-speaking  people  follow  the  German  example  of  enriching  their 
literary  language  (book-speech)  by  drawing  on  the  dialects,  both  local  and 
technical,  which  usually  afford  fifty  synonyms  for  one  in  the  literary  language. 
Every  human  activity,  he  pointed  out,  has  its  own  dialect,  including  the 
dialect  of  religion  in  the  archaic-sounding  English  bible.  By  the  by,  our 
next  Milton  may  have  as  much  to  say  about  the  religion  of  humanity  as  the 
first  one  had  about  the  religion  of  Puritanism.  But  he  could  hardly  call  the 
learned  doctrines  about  it  by  such  a  name  as  theology.  Godheadlore  and 
godhoodlore  would  do  better.  He  could  boil  hierology  down  to  faithlore  and 
belief  lore,  and  mythology  down  to  godlore  (cf.  the  German  Gottlehre  and  the 
Danish  Gudelaere). 

Marsh  called  attention  to  the  fact  that  often  the  popular  taste  is  truer 
than  that  of  Schoolcraft,  and  that  the  vulgar  fashion  of  inexpressiveness  in 
high  places  has  had  much  to  do  with  arresting  the  growth  of  the  English 
folkspeech.  D'Annunzio  says  that  whenever  he  has  an  idea  hard  to  express 
he  tries  to  think  what  his  mother  would  have  said  to  him  when  he  was  a  child. 
And  whatever  we  may  think  of  D'Annunzio's  ethics,  nobody  seems  able  to 
find  many  flaws  in  his  wordcraft.  What  better  argument  for  not  dismissing 
superciliously  an  expressive  compound  made  by  the  tasteful  instinct  of  the 
unlearned  .? 

Professor  Lounsbury,  in  his  '  History  of  the  English  Language,'  ac- 
knowledges the  Saxonward  tendency  in  English.  But,  like  all  conservatives 
and  transitionists,  he  warns  against  any  preference  for  one  element  or  the 
other,  adding  that  there  is  nothing  permanent  about  either  the  Latinistic  or 
the  Saxonward  movement.  How  does  he  know  '^.  What  he  calls  the  alter- 
nation of  the  two  tendencies  only  marks  the  losing  fight  of  the  Latinism 
first  introduced  by  the  Normans  to  hold  the  folkspeech  in  subjection.  The 
Saxon  folkspeech,  like  the  folklife,  has  kept  rising  ever  stronger  after  each 
reactionary  setback.  So  far  from  betokening  a  linguistic  pendulum  that 
may  swing  back  again  toward  Latinism,  the  Saxonward  movement  looks 
more  like  what  Darwin  would  call  a  mongrel's  reversion  to  its  original  type. 
Let  us  thank  God  for  a  reclaimable  Aryan  mongrel  instead  of  a  self-sterile 
hybrid !     Woden's  horse  Sleipnir  was  no  mule. 

I  call  such  writers  as  Lounsbury  and  Genung  conservative  transitionists. 


IVAN  CALVIN  WATERBURY  249 

because  neither  has  recognized  the  purely  social  origin,  use,  and  purpose  of 
both  language  and  literature.  Not  yet  has  one  history  of  the  English  lan- 
guage or  literature,  or  one  rhetoric  (speechcrafthook)  been  written  in  the 
needful  light  of  the  newest  of  sciences.  Sociology  (fellowshiplore) !  That 
light  now  comes  from  Germany,  the  morningland  of  freedom  and  modern 
culture.  It  is  dawning  in  Great  Britain  and  America.  It  is  overflowing 
the  world.  The  rise  of  the  folklife  from  the  thraldom  of  ages  is  the  great 
fact  of  the  living  epoch.  And  the  growth  of  every  folkspeech  keeps  pace 
with  the  folklife  it  springs  from.  1  he  same  holds  true  of  our  Anglo-Saxon 
folkspeech.  To  use  Trench's  figure,  English  has  Anglo-Saxon,  Scandina- 
vian, and  Dutch  roots  enough  to  spin  almost  any  word  needed,  spiderlike, 
out  of  its  own  bowels. 

Shakespeare,  who  should  be  called  the  Skald  of  Avon;  Shakespeare, 
whose  mighty  art  should  be  sonorously  called  skaldship  (after  the  Icelandic 
skaldskapr),  did  the  noble  utmost  for  the  English  of  his  oligarchical  age. 
But  what  of  the  Skaldship  of  the  next  Shakespeare,  who  will  have  to  do  with 
the  wonderful  inventions  and  discoveries  (outfindings)  that  have  given  birth 
to  the  manifold  new  arts  and  sciences;  with  the  mighty  machinery  (craft- 
gear  or  workgear)  and  engineering  (workgearcraft  or  gearcraft)  that  have 
made  the  whole  world  over  in  a  century  .?  Will  he,  writing  ponderously,  like 
Milton,  '  for  an  audience  fit,  though  few,'  try  to  bring  all  these  wonders  home 
to  the  great  folkmind,  by  means  of  such  outlandish  terms  as  are  good  only 
for  precision  in  the  technical  dialects  (craftspeech)  .?  Not  by  long  odds !  He 
will  deal  with  both  the  quick  and  the  dead  who  used  his  mother  tongue,  just 
as  Dryden  so  boastfully  '  dealt  with  both  the  living  and  the  dead  '  of  alien 
tongues,  for  *  sounding  words,'  '  rich  in  second  intention.*  Coming  English 
skalds  will  follow  the  masterly  initiative  of  William  Morris,  whom  the  Ice- 
landers called  a  skald  because  he  looked  the  part.  1  hereby  they  will  do 
for  Mother  English  what  German  wTiters  did  to  save  their  mother  tongue 
from  the  macaronic  minglemanglehood  into  which  it  had  degenerated  by  the 
dawn  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

It  is  often  alleged  that  English  is  rich  in  synonyms;  but  as  far  as  Anglo- 
Saxon  went  it  was  much  richer.  Where  modern  English  has  one  word  for 
poetry  or  hero,  Anglo-Saxon  had  a  dozen!  All  that  old  wealth  can  be  won 
back  and  added  to  what  we  have.  Only  our  popular  writers  must  first  let 
some  philological  Columbus  show  them  how  to  make  the  egg  stand  on  end. 

In  the  first  place,  we  must  study  the  laws  of  English  grammar  as  care- 
fully as  we  do  those  of  any  foreign  language  we  undertake  to  learn.  Louns- 
bury  misuses  the  word  culture  when  he  alleges  that  the  best  English  has  been 
written  by  men  of  little  culture.     Shakespeare  happened  to  have  the  genius 


250  POETIC  LANGUAGE 

to  learn  more  about  English  in  the  university  of  the  world  than  Oxford  or 
Cambridge  could  have  afforded  him;  because  he  knew  how  to  study  it  in 
relation  to  the  folklife.  There  he  learned  what  ponderous  rhetoricians 
might  have  warped  his  mind  from  learning.  He  came  by  a  culture  free 
from  the  pedantic  trammels  of  Ben  Jonson's  mammoth  learning;  and  it 
was  the  sounder  therefor.  This  is  not  saying  that  all  writers  would  fare  as 
well  selftaught.  The  point  is  that  he  mastered  the  anatomy  (unlimbinglore) 
and  surgery  (woundleechcraft)  of  the  body  of  English.  It  is  hard  to  tell 
whether  Shakespeare  made  or  found  the  word  wealsmen  for  statesmen,  but 
it  should  be  revived  and  imitated.  Morris  mastered  the  secrets  of  English 
wordlore  as  much  better  than  Shakespeare  as  the  manifold  development  of 
the  science  of  language  (speechlore)  naturally  enabled  him  to  do.  And  he 
applied  to  art  the  principles  of  this  science  which  has  brought  the  age  of 
Chaucer  and  Langland  nearer  to  us  than  it  was  to  the  Elizabethans.  He 
made  his  English  pure  enough  to  make  the  shades  of  Chaucer  and  Shakes- 
peare envious.  For  every  historical  token  goes  to  show  that  both  would 
have  been  glad  to  do  the  same,  had  they  not  lacked  the  scientific  gear  and 
tackle  that  Morris  had  to  hand  at  the  dawn  of  the  new  Renascence.  Morris 
and  his  Icelander  associate  for  twenty-seven  years,  Professor  Eirikr  Magnus- 
son  of  Oxford,  made  the  study  of  woodlore  a  lifelong  work  and  play.  So  did 
all  the  great  Elizabethans,  to  the  best  of  their  ability.  Only  the  latter  could 
not,  in  an  age  of  Latinistic  culture,  study  English  wordlore  in  all  its  Teutonic 
roots  and  branches.  They  who  lived  in  the  shade  of  Yggdrasil  could  not  see 
the  world-tree  of  life  and  knowledge  until  the  early  sunbeams  of  the  great 
social  summer  broke  up  the  fogs  of  alien  humbug  that  darkened  the  long 
feudal  winter  of  discontent. 

Here  is  accounting  for  that  homely  sublimity  of  wordcraft  which  some 
criticasters  of  that  class  whom  Balzac  dubbed  *  intellectual  eunuchs  '  had 
the  cheap  impudence  to  call  '  pseudo  Middle  English  '  !  As  Professor 
Magnusson  writes  in  his  preface  to  the  new  sixth  volume  of  their  '  Saga 
Library  '  :  '  It  is  a  strange  piece  of  impertinence  to  hint  at  pseudo  Middle 
English  scholarship  in  a  man  who,  in  a  sense,  might  be  said  to  be  a  living 
edition  of  all  that  was  best  in  M.  E.  literature.' 

Let  us  learn  the  working  principles  of  his  great  language! 

Consider  this  verbal  equation.  Art:  Craft:  Science:  Lore. 

Morris's  lifework  restored  to  the  wordcraft  all  its  former  dignity  as  a 
popular  synonym  for  art  in  general.  Also,  the  first  scholar  who  translated 
the  German  volkslehre  by  folklore,  made  lore  bear  a  closer  kinship  to  science 
than  knowledge  does.  In  lore  we  have  an  approximate  equivalent  of  the 
Greek  logos,  as  used  in  the  English  ending  -ology.     It  equals  the  German 


IVAN  CALVIN  WATERBURY  251 

Lehre,  as  craft  equals  the  German  Kunst.  Indeed,  all  sciences  and  arts 
whose  names  end  in  -ology,  -omy^  -ics,  and  -ism  can  be  named  in 
pure  English  by  affixing  lore  to  the  right  English  word  to  denote  the  science 
and  craft  to  denote  the  art.  Folklore  has  long  been  a  household  word.*  An 
excellent  magazine  of  popular  ornithology  has  been  published  for  some  years 
under  the  title  Birdlore.  Geikie  used  the  word  earthlore  in  the  title  of  a  book 
on  geology  and  physiography.  In  common  use  also  are  handicraft,  wood- 
craft (for  huntsmanship  in  the  woods),  witchcraft^  and  leechcraft  (the  poetical 
name  for  the  art  of  medicine).  Robert  Burns  used  speechcraft  for  the  art  of 
language  (rhetoric).  Sir  Walter  Scott  used,  even  in  prose,  the  noble  old 
word  bookcraft  for  literature  and  authorship;  which,  like  the  goodly  word 
shipcraft  used  last  by  Walt  Whitman,  for  the  art  of  navigation,  we  inherited 
from  the  Anglo-Saxon,  boccraeft  and  scipcraeft.  JVordcraft  (the  art  of  using 
words,  logic,  style)  has  survived  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  period  to  occasional 
use  nowadays.  Longfellow,  Morris,  and  others  revived  songcraft  {ars 
poetica)  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  sangcraeft,  for  the  art  of  poetry.  Tennyson 
used  the  old  word  starcraft  for  the  supposed  art  of  astrology;  but  starlore 
were  a  much  better  word  for  the  science  of  astronomy.  The  Anglo-Saxon 
word  for  music  and  minstrelsy  was  gleocraeft.  This  could  be  revived  in  the 
form  gleecraft.  On  the  same  principle,  the  following  words  could  be  added 
to  those  already  suggested: 

Hydraulogy:  waterlore  ftokencraft 

Phenomenology:  wonderlore  Symbolism:  -{  tokenlore 

Cosmology:  worldlore  (^tokens 

Meteorology:        weatherlore  (cf.      -^     .   ,  ^  spellcraft 

Danish  vetrlaere)  »    '  \  wondercraft 

Uranology:  skylore  Oology:     egglore 

Technology:   craftlore  Psychology:  soullore 
Genealogy:      kinlore    (from    Anglo-     Dynamics:  powerlore 

Saxon  cinelar)  Botany:  plantlore 

Dendrology:  treelore  Ecclesiastics:  churchlore 

Seismology:  earthquakelore  School  Polity:  Schoolcraft 

Spermology:      Kg^jj^j.^  Plutology:  wealthlore 

Spermatology:  j  Geometry:           )                . 

Chronology:  timelore  Trigonometry:    J  "^^^^^^^  ^ 
Physiognomy:      mienlore    (cf.    Ger.     Arithmetic:      reckoncraft    (cf.    Ger. 

Mienelehre)  Rechenkunst) 

Somatology:  )  j^^j  j  j.  Algebra:   tokenreckoncraft  (cf.  Ger. 

Physiology:    )         ^ '^  ^  Zeichenrechenkunst) 

[*PoET  Lore  originated  its  name  when  it  began  in  January,  1889.] 


252 


POETIC  LANGUAGE 


Sociology: 
Economics: 
Lithology : 
Hypnology : 


Horology:  timemetelore 

Biology;    all  the  biological  sciences: 

lifelore 

»     ,  ,  ( manlore 

Anthropology:   {         i  •    ji 

^       °^      ( mankindlore 

Social  Economics:  folkthriftlore 

Ethnology:     folkinlore 

fellowshiplore 

thriftlore 
stonelore 

sleeplore 

Pathology:  sicklore 

Morphology:  shapelore 

Aerology:  airlore 

Craniology:  skulllore 

Phrenology:  brainlore 

Archeology:  oldenlore 

Poetics:  songlore 

TT  J       ,.       ( waterworklore 
rivdrauiics:  <  ,        r 

■'  { waterworkcrait 

\  healthlore 

\  healthcraft 

( leechcraft 

\  leechlore 
eechdoms 


H 


ygiene; 


Med 


icme: 


icmes; 


Med 

Symbolics:  tokenlore 


(O.E.) 


Statics:  weightlore 
Hydrostatics :  waterweightlore 
Optics:  lightlore 
q-      .     _\  warcraft  (the  art  of  war) 

'  {  warlore  (the  science  of  war) 
Aeronautics:  airshipcraft 
Nomenclature:  namelore 
Pneumatics:  gaslore 
Aerostatics:  gasweightlore 
Numismatics:     mintlore 

ftilthlore 
Agriculture:    I  acrelore 

[  acretilth 


Lexicology : 
Etymology : 
Grammar: 
Linguistics: 
Philology : 

Journalism: 


Ichthiology: 
Social  Psychology: 
Popular  Etymology 
Politics:  statecraft 
Ecclesiastical  polity 


word  lore 

speechlore  (science  of 
language) 

\  newscraft 
\  tidingscraft 
fishlore 

folksoullore 
folkwordlore 


churchcraft 


Royal  Polity:  kingcraft 


The  words  school  and  plant  came  into  Anglo-Saxon  from  the  Latin,  and 
church  from  the  Greek.  Power  and  state  came  into  English  soon  after  the 
Norman  Conquest.  So  they  are  more  thoroughly  Anglicized  than  most 
other  foreignisms.  The  same  is  true  of  mien.  The  compounds  here  made 
with  them  are  at  least  improvements  for  casual  usage.  Let  poets  contrast 
the  abstract,  colorless  English  of  the  left  side  of  each  verbal  equation  with 
the  concrete,  vivid,  vital  Enghsh  of  the  right,  and  judge  between  the  goats 
and  the  sheep.  It  is  said  that  every  word  in  any  language  was  originally 
a  poem.  Does  not  the  present  growth  of  poetical  slang  like  '  give  him  the 
glad  hand  '  and  '  harnessing  Niagara  '  betoken  the  need  of  our  donridden 
English  for  more  such  word  poems  }  Words  any  one  of  which  can  say  to 
the  old  faded  metaphors,  as  Marshal  Ney  replied  to  the  arrogance  of  the 


IVAN  CALVIN  WATER  BURY  253 

young  nobles  of  the  restored  Bourbon  court:  '  But  I  am  an  ancestor;  you 
are  merely  descendants.' 

Corresponding  adjectives  and  derivative  nouns  of  agent  are  obtainable. 
One  of  Langland's  words  for  a  teacher,  scholar,  authority,  was  loresman; 
and  we  could  use  this  and  the  adjectival  ending  -tsh  (as  in  bookish).  1  hen 
we  could  make  Phenometiologist:  wonderloresman;  phenomenological: 
wonderlorish;  and  so  on  through  the  whole  list  of  sciences;  also  ridding 
ourselves  thus  of  the  monstrosities  folklorist  and  folkloristic!  The  arts  could 
be  treated  in  the  same  way,  affixing  -craftsman  or  -craftsmaster  for  artist 
and  -craftish,  the  older  word  for  artificial^  technical.  The  old  word  for 
artistic  -craftly  could  be  affixed  to  make  a  laudatory  adjective.  This 
would  make  warcraftsman  or  warcraftsmaster:  tactician;  war  craftish: 
tactical;  and  warcraftly:  done  with  masterly  tactics. 

These  living  suffixes  -ish  and  -ly  could  be  used  to  derive  innumer- 
able Saxon  adjectives  of  exquisite  charm.  It  were  more  harmonious  to  say 
*  bodily  and  mindly  '  than  '  bodily  and  mental.'  The  Germans  use  patriotisch 
and  vaterlandisch  interchangeably;  just  as  Scandinavians  use  patriotisk  and 
faedrelandsk.  Likewise  we  could  use  patriotic  and  fatherlandish;  and 
emulate  them  also  in  the  interchangeable  use  of  patriot  and  fatherlander. 
Such  native  words  are  the  richer  in  '  second  intention.' 

In  the  same  way  take  the  symbolical  names  of  our  states.  Our  next 
WTiitman  may  deem  it  wise  to  call  Ohio  Buckeyeland;  Ohioan,  Buckeye- 
landish;  and  a  native  of  the  Buckeye  State,  a  Buckeyelander.  Following 
out  such  a  system  he  could  use  Hawkeyeland  (Iowa),  Hawkeyelandish, 
Hawkeyelander;  Goldenland  (California),  Goldenlandish,  Goldenlander; 
Lonestarland  (Texas),  Lonestarlandish,  Lonestarlander;  Bluegrassland 
(Kentucky),  Bluegrasslandish,  Bluegrasslander;  Wolvereneland  (Michigan), 
Wolverenelandish,  Wolverenelander;  Swingecatland  (South  Dakota), 
Swingecatlandish,  Swingecatlander;  Bluehenland  (Delaware),  Bluelandhen- 
ish,  Bluehenlander;  and  so  on.  Where  the  state  name  seemed  unfit  for  such 
use,  as  in  the  case  of  Little  Rhody  (Rhode  Island),  he  could  make  Violet- 
land,  Violetlandish,  Violetlander,  using  the  name  of  the  state  flower. 

America  used  to  be  the  fosterland  of  nationalities.  Now  it  is  the  father- 
land of  the  composite  descendants  of  those  nationalities,  and  should  be  sung 
of  and  be  written  as  such.  I  have  as  much  right  to  use  bewritten  as  Carlyle 
had  to  use  bepraised.  Be-  is  a  living  prefix  freely  used  to  make  transitive 
verbs  of  intransitive,  or  for  the  sake  of  intensification,  or  both,  or  to  make 
verbs  of  nouns,  like  bespell:  enchant,  and  bewonder:  wonder  at,  admire. 
Bewrite  was  in  earlier  use,  like  the  German  beschreiben:  to  write  all  about, 
to  describe.     If  we  revived  that  and  made  the  noun  bewriting:  description, 


254  POETIC  LANGUAGE 

we  could  affix  bewriting  like  -graphy  to  English  words;  e.g.,  earth- 
bewnting  (cf.  German  Erdbeschreihung):     geography. 

Formerly  ling  was  affixed  much  more  freely  than  it  is;  but  we  could 
revive  homehng  for  native,  and  comeling  for  stranger,  immigrant;  as  well  as 
timeling  for  temporizer,  timeserver. 

,,-'•'  Such  words  as  telegraphy,  telephony,  phonography;  telegraph,  telephone, 
phonograph;  telegram  and  telepheme  are  unfit  for  poetic  use,  or  Whittier 
might  have  used  one  or  two  of  them  in  his  '  Cable  Hymn.'  We  should  do 
well  to  call  them,  Germanwise:  farwriting,  farspeaking,  soundwriting; 
farwriter,  farspeaker,  soundwriter;  farwrit,  farspeech.  Farwriter  could 
denote  either  instrument  or  operator,  as  in  the  case  of  typewriter.  A  tele- 
phonograph  could  be  called  consistently  a  farsoundwriter.  Speaking  of 
writing  reminds  me  that  the  native  English  word  for  manuscript  is  handwrit. 

We  still  use  the  Anglo-Saxon  prefixes  twi  and  thn  in  twilight,  twihilly 
twifallow,  and  thrifallow.  These  are  as  good,  at  least,  as  the  Latin  prefixes 
bi  and  tri,  etc.  With  them  we  could  make  twimeaning  for  ambiguous, 
ambiguity;  twispoken:  equivocal;  twispokenness:  equivocation;  twiness: 
duality;  twilife:  dual  life;  twifight:  duel;  twiplight:  dilemma;  and  revive 
the  Anglo-Saxon  thrines  {trinity,  triune)  in  the  form  thriness. 

Suggestions  for  the  cultivation  of  these  natural  resources  of  English 
are  not  farfetched,  like  Professor  Lounsbury's  recent  '  numeral-adjective  ' 
suggestion;  and  it  is  a  safe  wager  that  they  will  appeal  more  to  the  thinking 
public  than  such  Chinese  professorial  gibberish. 

The  Latinistic  suffix  -able  is  sometimes  represented  by  -y  and 
-some;  as  in  unruly,  unwieldy,  and  bendsome  (flexible).  Of  these  we 
could  make  burny:  combustible;  unwound  someness:  invulnerability. 
Trench  suggested  even  unthoroughfaresomeness  for  impenetrability.  Long 
words  are  sometimes  more  effective  than  short  ones,  if  only  they  are  self- 
explaining.  The  ending  is  sometimes  represented  by  -worthy;  as  in 
praiseworthy  and  markworthy  for  laudable  and  remarkable.  We  might  as 
well  have  wonderworthy:  admirable;  wishworthy:  desirable;  matchworthy 
and  likenworthy:  comparable:  and  we  could  prefix  un  to  get  the  opposite 
meanings.  Some  future  Roosevelt  may  denounce  unwishworthy  burghers, 
if  he  writes  poetry. 

The  ending  -olatry  is  represented  in  English  by  -worship;  as  in 
sunworship  for  heli olatry.  We  should  likewise  have  wonderworship  for 
thaumatolatry,  and  tokenworship  for  symbololatry. 

One  of  our  greatest  lacks  in  English  to-day  is  a  synonym  for  hero.  Heleth 
(from  the  Anglo-Saxon  haeleth:  German  Held:  Danish  H elt)  wa.s  the  old 
English  word  for  hero,  which  was  used  in  poetry  as  late,  at  least,  as  Drayton's 


IVAN  CALVIN  WATER  BURY  255 

Polyolbion.  To  revive  so  noble  a  v^ord  is  no  more  than  Milton  would  have 
•done  had  his  culture  been  Teutonistic  instead  of  Latinistic  and  Hellenistic; 
and  it  would  be  far  more  endearing  than  his  farfetched  alienisms.  Milton 
wrote  with  all  the  dignity  of  ponderosity.  The  next  Milton  may  write  with 
a  native  dignity  that  would  have  been  more  befitting  the  afterborn  Wonder- 
child  of  the  great  Elizabethan  age!  With  heleth  we  could  make  helethsong: 
-epic  poem  or  poetry;  helethship:  heroism;  helethdom:  heroarchy;  heJethly: 
heroic;  helethname:  eponym;  helethsoga:  epos;  and  many  other  compounds. 

The  endings  -archy  and  -ocracy  are  often  represented  by  -dom 
as  in  kingdom^  earldom,  lorddom,  etc.  So  we  could  have  Goddam:  Thearchy; 
folkdom:  democracy  (cf.  German  Folksthum);  and  by  normalizing  halidom 
to  holidom  we  should  get  one  word  for  hierarchy,  sacred  things,  etc.  Then 
the  present  intellectual  hierarchy,  which  accounts  for  the  donriddenness  of 
English,  could  be  called  more  fitly  and  intelligibly  a  loreholidom.  But  a 
theocracy,  like  that  of  John  Calvin  at  Geneva,  should  be  called  a  priestdom 
("German  Priesterthum). 

Let  no  sound  and  fury  of  alienistic  '  ponderosity  daunt  the  freethinking 
intelligence  of  him  who  understands  the  time-hallowed  genius  of  his  mother- 
tongue  ! 

When  the  word  ghost  is  used,  as  in  Ibsen's  '  Ghosts,'  and  in  the  phrases 
*  Holy  Ghost  '  and  '  give  up  the  ghost,'  and  the  old  *  local  ghost '  {genius  loci) 
we  have  as  good  a  word  as  the  Germans  have  in  Geist  to  render  the  Latin 
genius,  spiritus,  and  anima.  So  we  could  revive  ghost  in  the  sense  o(  anim 
humana,  and  make  worldghost:  anima  mundi;  timeghost:  spirit  of  the  time 
(cf.  German  Zeitgeist);  and  steadghost:  genius  loci. 

Stead  in  the  general  sense  of  place  was  freely  used  in  Elizabethan 
poetry,  and  still  survives  in  steady,  steadfast,  in  one's  stead,  instead,  home- 
stead, farmstead,  roadstead,  bedstead,  and  rarely  sunstead  {: .'solstice).  From 
stead  we  could  get  steadholder:  lieutenant,  deputy,  viceroy,  etc.  (cf.  Dutch 
Stadholder:  Germ3.n  Statthalter;  Danish  S  ted  holder);  steadman:  substitute; 
workstead:  laboratory;  craftstead:  manufactory.  Recent  writers  on  Scandi- 
navian history  and  geography  have  made  cheapstead:  market-place,  and 
peacestead:  place  where  the  right  of  sanctuary  is  observed.  Also  consider 
gamestead:  gymnasium,  athletic  field;  herdstead:  ranch;  birdstead:  aviary 
healthstead:  sanitarium  or  sanatorium;  bathstead:  bathing-beach  or  watering 
place;  sickstead:  hospital:  sickhouse  (cf.  Danish  Sygehus):  sleepstead: 
dormitory;  folkstead:  public  place;  lorestead:  institution  of  learning, 
museum  and  place  of  study. 

The  word  gear  means  apparatus,  equipment,  accouterments,  the  work- 
ing parts  of  a  mechanism,  etc.     So  we  could  make  craftgear  and  workgear: 


256  POETIC  LANGUAGE 

machinery,  enginery,  machine,  engine;  workgearcraft  and  gearcraft  (as 
opposed  to  handicraft):  engineering  (the  art  of  building  and  using  engines 
and  machines).  Morris,  Longfellow,  and  others  have  used  warcrajt:  the 
art  of  war,  and  wargear:  apparatus  of  war.  Then  warcraftgear:  artillery^ 
ordnance,  enginery,  etc.;  and  wargearcraft:  military  engineering.  Mete 
gear  (cf.  metestick,  meteyard,  etc.):  measuring  apparatus;  lore  gear:  scien- 
tific apparatus;  leechgear:  medical  apparatus;  woundleechgear:  surgical 
apparatus;   and  tonecraftgear:  musical  instruments. 

It  is  not  generally  realized  how  many  living  affixes  we  have,  which  are 
freely  used  to  form  innumerable  words.  Take  be-,  fore-,  in-,  un-,  mis-,  over-, 
under-,  out-,  by-,  mid-;  and  -ness,  -ship,  -dom,  -hood,  -wise,  -er.  There  is  in 
the  dialect  of  mathematics  a  proposition  called  belinkedness,  which  would 
make  a  good  vernacular  word  for  concatenation;  then  belink:  concatenate. 
Likewise  benaught:  annul,  annihilate;  betithe:  decimate;  belight:  illum- 
inate (used  by  Cowley,  like  German  beleuchten).  Underhint:  insinuate, 
msmuation,  innuendo;  underthreat:  covert  or  veiled  threat.  Foreworldly 
primeval;  headmanship:  chieftaincy;  inshape:  imagine;  unlaw:  anarchy; 
mismatch:  misalliance;  misshape:  deformity;  overgo:  surpass,  etc.;  byttme: 
leisure.  But  here  I  will  forego  the  myriad  other  suggestions  I  could  offer 
along  the  foregoing  and  other  lines,  in  the  reasonable  hope  that  others 
may  choose  to  amplify,  and  make  poetic  English  grow  and  bloom  like  a 
green  bay-tree,  instead  of  accumulate  like  a  crystal. 


JbttemnioKemew 


There^are  a  great  many  interesting 
letters  in  a  publisher's  mail.  With 
the  possible  exception  of  the  theatrical 
manager  he  probably  meets,  in  person 
or  by  letter,  more  human  novelties 
than  anyone  else.  The  following  is 
a  rather  good  example  of  the  import- 
ance many  authors  place  on  that 
insignificant  feature,  the  plot: 

'  'I  am  sending  you  a  manuscript  of  one  of  my 
books,  which  I  started  to  set  up  in  type  myself; 
but  finished  the  rest  with  the  typewriter.  If 
it  is  going  to  cost  me  too  much  to  give  my 
books  to  the  world,  I  will  have  to  buy  a  larger 
printing  outfit,  and  print  them  myself.  I  know 
that  God  is  not  going  to  put  up  with  the  world 
as  it  is,  much  longer,  so  I  wish  to  do  all  I  can 
to  bring  men  to  think. 

Hoping  that  you  will  find  it  to  your  advan- 
tage to  put  it  through,  I  send  it  to  you  as  it  is: 
though  it  lacks  the  plot:  but  I  can  write,  and 
send  that  as  soon  as  it  is  wanted." 


Those  of  our  younger  poets  who 
have  been  disappointed  at  the  recep- 
tion accorded  their  published  work  by 
the  great  American  public  may  be 
interested  in  the  following  quotations 
from  Dr.  S.  Weir  Mitchell's  preface 
to  his  latest  volume,  The  Comfort 
of  the  Hills. 

"In  the  year  1882  1  printed  the 
first  of  six  small  volumes  of  verse. 
The  editions  of  each  were  limited  to 
200  or  300  copies,  with  an  average 
sale  of  about  fifty  copies.  Having 
generously  given  away  the  rest,  I 
am  amused  to  find  that  these  volumes 
are  now  sought  for  by  the  collector 
of  first  editions,  and  are  occasionally 
bringing  absurd  prices. 


"This  present  collection  is  the  only 
one  I  have  not  paid  for  outright,  and 
is  a  venture  of  my  publishers  which 
speaks  well  for  their  courage. 

"The  three  poems  at  the  beginning 
of  this  volume  lay  for  many  years 
in  my  portfolios.  "The  Comfort  of 
the  Hills"  is  now  publicly  printed  for 
the  first  time.  The  two  odes  have 
appeared  in  the  Century  Magazine; 
"On  a  Lycian  Tomb"  was  first 
printed  in  the  selection  of  my  poems 
published  at  my  expense  by  Macmillan 
in  London. 

"This  volume  had  a  still  more 
brilliant  success  than  its  predecessors 
in  America.  In  all,  eighteen  copies 
sold  in  the  first  year,  and,  so  far  as  I 
know,  none  since.  Two  years  later 
I  was  asked  to  say  what  was  to  be 
done  with  the  remaining  volumes. 
Unfortunately,  the  English  publishers 
had  placed  in  them  a  statement  that 
the  book  was  copyrighted  in  America. 
This  was  true  only  as  to  a  part  of 
its  contents,  but  it  absolutely  pre- 
vented the  exportation  to  this  country. 
Accordingly,  I  desired  Mr.  Macmillan 
to  burn  the  rest  of  the  volumes  or 
to  consign  them  afresh  to  the  paper 
mill  to  serve  for  reincarnation  of  the 
poems  in  some  more  fortunate  form. 
I  asked  also  that  fifty  bound  copies 
be  sent  to  America.  They  were 
promptK  stopped  in  the  New  York 
Custom  House.  A  book  said  to  be 
copyrighted  in  America  the  law  for- 
bids to  enter.  I  asked  what  should 
be    done   with    them.     Might    I    buy 


THE  LITERARY  REVIEW 


them  ?  I  could  not.  I  believe  it 
was  finally  concluded  to  cremate 
them.  This  history  of  the  freaks  of 
the  copyright  and  the  adventures  of 
a  book  may  not  be  without  interest." 

Mr.  Roosevelt  was  not  the  only 
one  to  spend  1909  In  the  African 
Jungle.  The  Golliwogg  was  there 
also.  Miss  Bertha  Upton  tells  us  of 
his  adventures  in  verse  and  Miss 
Florence  K.  Upton  has  pictured  these 
as  effectively  as  Kermit  has  photo- 
graphed his  intrepid  parent.  This  is 
the  fourteenth  Golliwogg  book  and 
is  well  up  to  the  standard  set  by  the 
others.  {Longmans,  Green  bf  Co., 
^1.50) 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson  has 
just  issued  the  third  edition  of  his 
poems  under  the  title  of  Saint- 
Gaudens:  An  Ode^and  Other  Verse. 
This  plan  of  keeping  all  of  one's  work 
in  a  single  volume  seems  a  good  one. 
The  book  is  divided  into  i.  The 
Winter  Hour  and  Other  Poems.  2. 
Songs  of  Liberty  and  Other  Poems, 
both  of  which  are  still  obtainable  in 
separate  volumes.  3.  Italian  Raph- 
sody  and  Other  Poems.  4.  Moments 
of  Italy  and  Other  Poems.  (The 
Century  Co.,  ^1.20.) 

The  Inspiration  of  Poetry,  by 
George  Edward  Woodbury,  is  a  col- 
lection of  eight  lectures  on  poetic 
energy  delivered  before  the  Lowell 
Institute  during  1906.  The  papers 
are  Poetic  Madness,  Marlowe, 
Camaens,  Byron,  Gray,  Tasso,  Lu- 
cretius and  Inspiration.  (The  Mac- 
millan  Co.,  $1.25  net?) 

Allison  s  Lad  and  Other  Martial 
Interludes,  by  Beulah  Marie  Dix,  is 
a  collection  of  six.one-act  plays.  They 
are     perfectly     practicable     for     per- 


formance by  clever  amateurs;  at  the 
same  time  they  make  decidedly 
interesting  reading.  They  comprise 
six  stirring  war  episodes.  Five  of 
them  occur  at  night,  and  most  of 
them  in  the  dread  pause  before  some 
mighty  conflict.  The  author  has 
most  ingeniously  managed  to  give  the 
feeling  of  big  events  though  employ- 
ing but  few  players.  The  emotional 
grip  is  strong,  often  tragic.  (A^ew 
York:  Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  ^1.35  net.) 

Poems,  by  Percy  MacKaye,  is 
divided  into  two  parts,  the  first  to 
Poems  Chiefly  Occasional;  the  second 
to  Poems  Lyrical  and  Descriptive. 
The  work  as  a  whole  is  excellently 
done.  (The  Macmillan  Co.,  ^1.25 
net^ 

Longfellow^ s  Country,  by  Helen  A. 
Clarke,  is  an  attractive  book  whose 
text  and  illustrations  alike  give  the 
reader  a  glimpse  into  those  scenes 
which  were  the  inspiration  of  the 
great  poet's  verses.  He  loved  the 
sea  and  the  old,  old  scenes  and  has 
breathed  their  spirit  into  song  to 
bless  the  ages.  A  charming  book  for 
a  gift.  (Baker  Cff  Taylor  Co.,  $2.50 
net.) 

The  Theory  of  the  Theatre  and 
Other  Principles  of  Dramatic  Criti- 
cism, by  Clayton  Hamilton,  is  divided 
into  two  sections:  The  Theory  of 
the  Theatre,  What  is  a  Play  ?  The 
Psychology  of  Theatre  Audiences. 
The  Actor  and  the  Dramatist. — Stage 
Conventions  in  Modern  Times. — 
Economy  of  Attention  in  Theatrical 
Performances. — Emphasis  in  the 
Drama. — The  Four  Leading  Types  of 
Drama:  Tragedy  and  Melodrama; 
Comedy  and  Farce. — The  Modern 
Social  Drama.  The  other  Princi- 
ples are  The  Public  and  the  Drama- 
tist.— Dramatic  Art  and  the  Theatre 


THE  LITERARY  REVIEW 


REFRESHIIMG     SUMMER     READING 


"A  hook  of  unfailing  interest.  "-67.  L"uis  oiobe-Democrat. 

The  Heart  of   Desire 

By  ELIZABETH   DEJEANS 

Author  of ''The  Winning  Chanced 

\\\  intensely  dramatic  and  absorbing  novel  of  the  instincts 

of  womanhood— an  analysis  of  woman,  human  and  appealing 

—the  story  pictured  against  a  wonderful  Southern  California 

background. 

"There  is  color,  vitality,  and  freshr..^s  in  the  picture,  and  charming 
variety  of  detail  in  the  development  of  the  story.  Horton  is  the  ideal  lover, 
strong-hearted,  wilful,  persevering;  and  Kate  is  the  v.vul,  tantalizing, 
impersonal  creature  in  an  armor  of  secrecy.  But  the  author  transforms  this 
woman  into  a  being  of  rarest  and  most  beautiful  human  ^lualities— or  rather, 
brings  those  latent  emotions  to  the  'iox^r— Boston  l-vniing  7 ranscnpt. 
SECOND  LARGE  EDITION 
Three  Colored  Illustrations  by  The  Kinneys. 

Routled^e  Rides  Alone 

By  WILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT 
"Comfort  has  succeeded  where  Kipling  failed.  He  has  written  a  con- 
sistently dramatic,  vigorous,  and  able  novel,  with  a  war-correspondent  as 
the  hero,  India  and  Manchuria  in  war  time  as  the  backgrounds,  and  a 
pervading  element  of  Oriental  mysticism  in  which  East  and  XVest  mmgle 
Moreover,  he  has  woven  into  the  book  an  appealing  and  distinguished 
love  romance." — Phi'unielphia  Press. 

SECOND  LARGE  EDITION 
violored  Frontispiece  by  Martin  Justice. 

w^      I      •   9\^     \  Spirited  Romance 
KaiClgtl    of  Elizabeth's  Court 

By  WM.   DEVEREUX  and  STEPHEN  LOVELL 
Founded  upon  their  successful  play,  "  Sir  Walter  Raleigh," 

the  hit  of  the  1909-10  London  theatrical  season. 

"  As  a  romance  the  story  is  entitled  to  rank  with  the  best  of  Stanley 

Wevman's  novels,  while  its  historic  worth  is  far  greater." 

■'  — Twentieth  Century  Mui^azine. 

With  8  Illustrations  showing  scenes  from  the  Play. 


The  Daughters  of  Suffolk 

By  WILLIAM  JASPER  NlCOLl-S 
A  Romance  ol  the  Middle  XVI  Century 

With  24  illustrations  front  rare  old  prints. 


u 


m^      11         Tx  Robert  HicRiens' 

Delia    UOnna  Greatest  Novel 

Is  still  the  most  widely  discussed  book  ol  the  dtiy. 


vJL 


II 


ii 


t     ROUTLEDGE 
RIDES  ALONE 


WILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT 


II 


hu 


BELLA 

DONNA 

ROBERT  HICHENS 


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r3 


J.   B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMP/KNY^j^^Sm^ 


I 


THE  LITERARY  REVIEW 


Business. — The  Happy  Endings  in 
the  Theatre. — The  Boundaries  of 
Approbation. — Imitation  and  Sug- 
gestion in  the  Drama. — Holding  the 
Mirror  Up  to  Nature. — Blank  Verse 
on  the  Contemporary  Stage. — Dra- 
matic Literature  and  Theatric  Journal- 
ism.— The  Intention  of  Permanence. 
— The  Quality  of  New  Endeavor. — 
The  Effect  of  Plays  Upon  the  Public. 
— Pleasant  and  Unpleasant  Plays. — 
Themes  in  the  Theatre. — The  Func- 
tion of  Imagination.  {Henry  Holt 
y  Co.,  $1.50  fiet.) 

J.  B.  Lippincott  Company  issued  in 
March  an  interesting  study  of  "The 
Mystery  of  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Den- 
mark," by  Robert  Russell  Benedict. 
It  is  an  essay  designed  to  set  down 
plainly  and  briefly  the  enigmatical 
phase  of  Hamlet's  character  which 
has  come  to  be  recognized  as  his 
"mystery,"  and  it  offers  some  sugges- 
tions toward  its  solution.     (;^i.oo  net.) 

In  Manhattan  Charles'  Hanson 
Towne  has  made  a  praiseworthy 
attempt  to  put  into  words  the  poetry 
of  a  great  city.  Mr.  Towne  has  done 
very  well,  his  verse  is  good,  always 
graceful,  often  eloquent.  (Mitchell 
JCennerley,    ^i.oo.) 

Transitus  inLucem  is  a  little  book  of 
verse,  most  of  which  were  written  by 
Louise  Beecher  Chancellor,  in  whose 
memory     the     poems     are     printed. 

{Norwalk:  The  Fairfield  Co.,  60  cents.) 

The  New  Fiction 

The  Heart  of  Desire,  by  Elizabeth 
Dejeans,  is  a  thoroughly  modern 
story,  with  a  California  setting,  deal- 
ing with  people  and  circumstances 
that  develop  naturally  in  our  pros- 
perous, highly-strung  life  of  to-day. 
We  are  given  a  glimpse  into  the  inner- 


most sanctuary  of  a  woman's  soul — 
a  revelation  of  the  truth  that  to  a 
woman  there  may  be  a  greater  thing 
than  the  love  of  a  man.  The  plot 
is  intensely  dramatic  and  appealing, 
is  handled  with  splendid  skill,  and  will 
touch  the  sympathy  and  arouse  the 
instant  interest  of  every  reader.  (/. 
B.  Lippincott  Co.,  $1.50.) 

Routledge  Rides  Alone,  by  Will  L. 
Comfort,  is  a  consistently  strong 
novel,  dramatic,  well  written,  and  full 
of  fire  and  intrigue.  Mr.  Comfort  has 
drawn  upon  two  practically  new 
story  places  in  the  world  of  fiction 
to  furnish  the  scenes  for  his  narrative — 
India,  and  Manchuria  at  the  time  of 
the  Russo-Japanese  War.  While  the 
novel  is  distinguished  by  its  clear 
and  vigorous  war  scenes,  the  fine 
and  sweet  romance  of  the  love  of  the 
hero,  Routledge — a  brave,  strong  and 
talented  American — for  the  "most 
beautiful  woman  in  London,"  rivals 
these  in  interest.  (/.  B.  Lippin- 
cott Co.,  ^1.50.) 

Raleigh,  by  Stephen  Lovell  and 
Wm.  Devereux,  is  a  bright,  readable, 
highly  dramatic  novel,  founded  upon 
the  play  "Sir  Walter  Raleigh,"  in 
which  Mr.  Lewis  Waller  recently 
scored  such  a  big  success  in  London, 
and  which  he  will  probably  produce 
in  this  country  during  the  fall  of 
1910.     (/.  B.  Lippincott  Co.,  $1.50.) 

Franklin  Winslow  Kane,  by  Anne 
Douglas  Sedgwick,  is  the  story  of 
two  men  and  two  women,  the  tangling 
of  whose  love  affairs  is  unraveled  by 
Miss  Sedgwick's  master  pen.  The 
restlessness  of  lives  without  purpose, 
the  quiet  fruitfulness  of  such  a  life  as 
Kane's,  the  beauty  of  the  English 
country  are  drawn  with  Miss  Sedg- 
wick's rare  skill,  and  she  works  out 


THE  LITERARY  REVIEW 


IN  THE  OPINION  OF  MANY  READERS 

THE     FORUM 


Is  at  present  furnishing  the  most  remarkable  Hst  of  contributors 
of  any  magazine  in  the  United  States. 

Here  are  a  few  of  those  whose  work  appears  in  the  April  and 
May  Numbers  : 

Maurice  Malterlinck  H.  G.  Wells 

Bjornstjerne  Bjornson  John  Galsworthy 

Richard  Le  Gallienne  William  Archer 

George  Sylvester  Viereck  George  Meredith 

(^Clinton  Scollard  Eden  Phillpotts 

Clayton  Hamilton  Edwin  Markham 

William  Watson 


In  the  May  Number  Begins 

THE  NEW  MACHIAVELLI 

A  Novel  by 
H.  G.  WELLS 

THREE  MONTHS'  TRIAL  SUBSCRIPTION  50c 
$2.00  a  Year  25  Cents  a  Copy 


THE     FORUM 

45  East  42d  Street 
NEW  YORK  CITY 


THE  LITERARY  REVIEW 


her  plot  to  an  unexpected  ending. 
With  every  new  novel  the  "exquisite" 
quality  of  Miss  Sedgwick's  writing 
is  more  apparent.  {The  Century 
Co.,  ^1.50.) 

The  Grand  Canyon  of  Colorado 
furnishes  the  magnificent  setting  for 
the  dramatic  story  by  James  Paul 
Kelley,  entitled  Prince  Izon.  Scenes 
of  frightful  carnage  and  diabolical 
stratagem  succeed  each  other  with 
bewildering  rapidity;  two  love  themes 
enlist  the  sympathies,  and  the  book 
will  have  the  fascination  of  the  unusual 
in  the  world  of  fiction.  (A.  C. 
McClurg  &  Co.,  $1.50.) 

In  Bella  Dofjna,  Robert  Hichens 
has  again  taken  his  reader  to  North- 
ern Africa,  This  time  to  the  Nile 
Valley  and  its  sands,  its  rocky  wilder- 
ness, and  the  ruins  of  the  millenni- 
um. Here  his  rich  imagination  has 
developed  one  of  those  Anglo-Oriental 
romances  in  the  weaving  of  which  he 
has  proved  himself  a  past-master. 
Again  the  reader  may  enjoy  the 
vivid  coloring  of  his  pen-pictures  of 
the  desert.  His  descriptive  powers 
have  lost  none  of  their  force.  In 
Bella  Donna  Mr.  Hichens  shows 
himself  worthy  of  the  author  of  "The 
Garden  of  Allah."  (/.  B.  Lippin- 
cott  &  Co.,  $l.SO.) 

The  Broken  Wheel  by  Florence 
Land  May  is  a  story  of  political 
graft  in  San  Francisco — exceptionally 
well  handled  for  a  first  book.     (C.  M. 

Clark  Pub.  Co.) 

The  Man  Higher  Up  by  Henry 
Russell  Miller  is  the  story  of  a  man, 
of  the  crude  ore  from  which  fine 
steel  is  made,  who  fought  his  way 
from  tenement-waif  to  newsboy,  mill- 
hand,  ward-leader,  party  boss,  mayor 
of  a  great  city,  governor  of  a  great 


state.  The  enemies  who  opposed 
him  inch  by  inch.  The  women  who 
loved  him  and  the  one  woman  he 
loved.  The  forces  he  organized  by 
the  strength  of  his  iron  will  and  that 
inner  force  by  which  he  came  at 
last  to  rule  his  own  spirit.  {Bohbs- 
M  err  ill    Co.,    $1.50.) 

Books  Received 

New  Poems,  by  Richard  Edwin 
Day.     The  Grafton  Press. 

Along  the  Way,  by  Carrie  Munson 
Hoople.     The    Grafton    Press. 

Mingled  Wine,  by  Anna  Bunston. 
Longmans,  Green  ^  Co. 

Guilty  ?  by  John  W.^Arctander. 
Cochrane  Pub.  Co.,  $1.00. 

Insurrections.  A  volume  of  poems 
by  James  Stephens.  Dublin,  Maunsel 
&  Co.,  New  York,  The  Macmillan 
Co.,  40  cents  net.) 

Monday  Morning  and  Other  Poems, 
by  James  Oppenheim.  Sturgis  bf 
Walker  Co.,  ^1.25  net. 

The  Dimensional  Idea,  as  an  Aid 
to  Religion,  by  W.  F.  Tyler.  R.  F. 
Fenno  &'  Co.,  50c. 

Robert  Emmet's  Wooing,  by  Edgar 
C.  Blum.      Cochrane  Pub.  Co.,  ^1.50. 

In  the  Shadow  of  God,  by  Guy 
Arthur  Jameson.  R.  F.  Fenno  & 
Co.,  ^i. 00  net. 


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PATENT   LAWYER 

843  F  St.,  N.  W.         Washington,  D.  C. 


THE  LITERARY  REVIEW 


FOUR    REFRESHING     SUMMER     NOVELS 


THE  CALENDARED  ISLES 

A  Romance  of  Casco  Bay  by  Harrison   Jewett  Holt. 
12  mo.  pictorial  cover,  :$i.50 

A  delightful  summer  romance  that  will  make  a  strong  appeal  to  all 
persons  who  live  near  or  have  visited  that  beauty  spot  of  Maine,  Casco 
Bay.  It  is,  moreover,  a  book  that  will  not  alone  be  of  interest  to  those 
who  know  Maine,  but  to  every  reader  who  enjoys  good  work.  ^Thestyle 
is  excellent  and  the  characters  well  drawn. 

ASAINTOFTHETWENTIETH  CENTURY 

By  Fannie  Bond  Rice.      12  mo.  cloth,  $1.50. 

A  story  of  life  in  a  small  town  which,  burdened  with  crooked  politics 
and  unscrupulous  citizens,  hails  with  delight  the  arrival  of  an  up-to-date, 
live  man,  as  pastor  of  the  most  prominent]  church  in  town.  It  is  a  live 
novel  written  around  a  strong  man. 

HEREFORD 

By  M.  Dunton  Sparrow.      Illustrated,  12  mo.  cloth,  $1.00. 

This  is  a  most  intimate  and  delightful  story  of  men  of  our  own  blood, 
who  dwell  in  an  undeveloped  and  untutored  state  amidst  Nature's  prim- 
eval beauties.  The  characters  are  strong  and  convincing,  and  the  style 
such  that  will  make  an  impression  on  the  most  indifferent  reader.  It  is  a 
book  that  will  compare,  not  unfavorably,  with  "The  Trail  of  the  Lonesome 
Pine." 

RUEL  DURKEE,  MASTER  OF  MEN 

By  George  Waldo  Brown.      Illustrated,  12  mo.  cloth,  $1.50. 

Everyone  who  reads  fiction  has  read  Winston  Churchill's  New  Hamp- 
shire romances  and  will,  therefore,  well  remember  Ruel  Dui'kee,  one  of  his 
prominent  characters.  Mr.  Brown  gives  us  the  Real  Ruel  Durkee,  who 
was  somewhat  misunderstood  b}'  Churchill.  It  is  a  vivid  character  study 
and  one  that  will  live. 


These  hooks  may  be  had  at  your  bookstore  or  the  publisher 
will    forward    copies     postpaid     upon     receipt    of    price. 


RICHARD   G.  BADGER,  Publisher,  Boston 


THE  LITERARY  REVIEW 


her  plot  to  an  unexpected  ending. 
With  every  new  novel  the  "exquisite" 
quality  of  Miss  Sedgwick's  writing 
is  more  apparent.  (The  Century 
Co.,  $1.50.) 

The  Grand  Canyon  of  Colorado 
furnrshes  the  magnificent  setting  for 
the  dramatic  story  by  James  Paul 
Kelley,  entitled  Prince  Izon.  Scenes 
of  frightful  carnage  and  diabolical 
stratagem  succeed  each  other  with 
bewildering  rapidity;  two  love  themes 
enlist  the  sympathies,  and  the  book 
will  have  the  fascination  of  the  unusual 
in  the  world  of  fiction.  {J.  C. 
McClurg  iff  Co.,  $1.50.) 

In  Bella  Donna,  Robert  Hichens 
has  again  taken  his  reader  to  North- 
ern Africa.  This  time  to  the  Nile 
Valley  and  its  sands,  its  rocky  wilder- 
ness, and  the  ruins  of  the  millenni- 
um. Here  his  rich  imagination  has 
developed  one  of  those  Anglo-Oriental 
romances  in  the  weaving  of  which  he 
has  proved  himself  a  past-master. 
Again  the  reader  may  enjoy  the 
vivid  coloring  of  his  pen-pictures  of 
the  desert.  His  descriptive  powers 
have  lost  none  of  their  force.  In 
Bella  Donna  Mr.  Hichens  shows 
himself  worthy  of  the  author  of  "The 
Garden  of  Allah."  (/.  B.  Lippin- 
cott  Cff  Co.,  ^1.50.) 

The  Broken  Wheel  by  Florence 
Land  May  is  a  story  of  political 
graft  in  San  Francisco — exceptionally 
well  handled  for  a  first  book.  (C.  M. 
Clark  Pub.  Co.) 

The  Man  Higher  Up  by  Henry 
Russell  Miller  is  the  story  of  a  man, 
of  the  crude  ore  from  which  fine 
steel  is  made,  who  fought  his  way 
from  tenement-waif  to  newsboy,  mill- 
hand,  ward-leader,  party  boss,  mayor 
of  a  great  city,  governor  of  a  great 


state.  The  enemies  who  opposed 
him  inch  by  inch.  The  women  who 
loved  him  and  the  one  woman  he 
loved.  The  forces  he  organized  by 
the  strength  of  his  iron  will  and  that 
inner  force  by  which  he  came  at 
last  to  rule  his  own  spirit.  {Bohbs- 
M  err  ill    Co.,    $1.50.) 

Books  Received 

Neiv  Poems,  by  Richard  Edwin 
Day.      The  Grafton  Press. 

Along  the  Way,  by  Carrie  Munson 
Hoople.      The    Grafton    Press. 

Mingled  Wine,  by  Anna  Bunston. 
Longmans,  Green  <5f  Co. 

Guilty  ^  by  John  W.^Arctander. 
Cochrane  Pub.  Co.,  ^$1.00. 

Insurrections.  A  volume  of  poems 
by  James  Stephens.  Dublin,  Maunsel 
iff  Co.,  New  York,  The  Macmillan 
Co.,  40  cents  net.) 

Monday  Morning  and  Other  Poems, 
by  James  Oppenheim.  Sturgis  iff 
Walker  Co.,  ^1.25  net. 

The  Dimensional  Idea,  as  an  Aid 
to  Religion,  by  W.  F.  Tyler.  R.  F. 
Fenno  iff  Co.,  50c. 

Robert  Emmefs  Wooing,  by  Edgar 
C.  Blum.      Cochrane  Pub.  Co.,  ^1.50. 

In  the  Shadow  of  God,  by  Guy 
Arthur  Jameson.  R.  F.  Fenno  6° 
Co.,  $1.00  net. 


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E.  E.  VROOMAN 

I'ATEXT   LAWYEK 

843  F  St.,  N.  W.         Washington.  D.  C. 


THE  LITERARY  REVIEW 


FOUR    REFRESHING     SUMMER     NOVELS 


THE  CALENDARED  ISLES 

A  Rotnauce  of  Casco  Bay  by  Harrison    Jexvett  Holt. 
12  mo.  pictorial  cover,  $1.50 

A  delightful  summer  romance  that  will  make  a  strong  appeal  to  all 
persons  wlio  live  near  or  have  visited  that  beauty  spot  of  Maine,  Casco 
Bay.  It  is.  moreover,  a  book  that  will  not  alone  be  of  interest  to  those 
who  know  Maine,  but  to  every  reader  who  enjoys  good  work.  ^Thestyle 
is  excellent  and  the  characters  well  drawn. 

ASAINTOFTHETWENTIETH  CENTURY 

By  Faunie  Bond  Rice.      11  mo.  cloth,  Si. 50. 

A  story  of  life  in  a  small  town  which,  l)urdened  with  crooked  politics 
and  unscrupulous  citizens,  hails  ^xHth  delight  the  arrival  of  an  up-to-date, 
live  man.  as  pastor  of  the  most  prominent]  church  in  town.  It  is  a  live 
novel  written  around  a  strong  man. 

HEREFORD 

By  M.  Dunton  Sparrow.      Illustrated,  12  mo.  cloth,  $1.00. 

This  is  a  most  intimate  and  delightful  story  of  men  of  our  own  blood, 
who  dwell  in  an  undeveloped  and  untutored  state  amidst  Nature's  prim- 
eval beauties.  The  characters  are  strong  and  convincing,  and  the  style 
such  that  will  make  an  impression  on  the  most  indifferent  reader.  It  is  a 
book  that  will  compare,  not  unfavorablv,  with  "The  Trail  of  the  Lonesome 
Pine." 

RUEL  DURKEE,  MASTER  OF  MEN 

By  George  fValdo  Brown.      Illustrated,  12  mo.  cloth,  $1.50. 

Everyone  who  reads  fiction  has  read  Winston  Churchill's  New  Hamp- 
shire romances  and  will,  therefore,  well  remember  Ruel  Durkee,  one  of  his 
prominent  characters.  Mr.  Brown  gives  us  the  Real  Ruel  Durkee,  who 
was  somewhat  misunderstood  by  Churchill.  It  is  a  vivid  character  study 
and  one  that  will  live. 


These  hooks  may  be  had  at  your  bookstore  or  the  publisher 
will    forward    copies     postpaid     upon    receipt    of    price. 


RICHARD   G.  BADGER,  Publisher,  Boston 


THE  LITERARY  REVIEW 


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